Shadows Creeping
by Rhys
Summary: A darkness begins to grow in Greenwood, and some young elflings get caught up in the evil events that are gradually stealing the joy and light from the forest…Chap41: Sometimes there's no where to go...
1. The Child

I'm sorry, I know I ought to be working on my other fics, this really isn't my fault! This evil, evil Nuzgûl latched onto me by the throat last night, and it just wont leave me alone! I don't even know what I'm going to do with this story, or if Ill even bother continuing it…sigh…I really, really hate Nuzgûl… But yes, if I do end up continuing it, Legolas will be showing up—next chapter, probably, if I make a next chapter. Grrr…evil, evil, evil Nuzgûl…

**Shadows Creeping**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of this; I made up the girl, but claim no rights to her—everything belongs to Tolkien the Great! I'm just borrowing, and while there may be damage along the way I'll give them all back at the end!

**Summary: **A darkness begins to grow in Greenwood the Great, and some young elflings get caught up in the evil events that are gradually stealing the joy and light from the forest…

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**Chapter One: The Child**

Darkness had fallen in Greenwood the Great. Only one elf yet knew of the shadow, and she was in no condition to appreciate its greater meaning. Her entire world was focused on the red-stained body she knelt over as the rain pelted the leaves and mud around her. Her quiet sobs mingled with the sound of the storm and she shook violently, more from loss than the brutal weather.

"Ada," she cried, when the mostly unintelligible moans could be made out, "naneth, ada, tolo dan, tolo dan…" The child was no more than a few decades old, and the pain of her loss was almost more than her young mind could bear. Her dark hair hung limply in the water and blood that pooled on the dead elf's mutilated chest, stained as well with her bitter tears. She sat, surrounded by her family, but alone.

For the dead are poor company for an elfling.

All around her lay the savagely murdered bodies of her fellows, intermingled with the black, foul corpses of _yrch_. She had been traveling with her family and a few of their friends of old to the Gray Havens. The Silvan Elves did not often suffer from the Sea Longing, at least not to the degree of their kin, but when they did feel the call it was as irresistible to them as any Elf. Her father had been wounded in the battle of the Last Alliance, and his wounds had at last overcome his desire to stay in Middle-earth. To be fully healed, he would have to depart for Valinor, and though the parting was a sad one for the child and her mother, they knew that they would join him eventually, after Middle-earth ceased to hold them tightly, and so it had been endurable. A few others had also chosen the leave, and all had set out to bid them farewell on the shores of the Sea.

This parting, though, was one that none had expected. They had, of course, traveled armed, for not all evil things had been eradicated, but they were equipped lightly for they did not fear serious trouble. They were to pass through Lórien and bid distant kin there a goodbye, and then tarry a time in Imladris before finally heading to the Havens. Journeying southwards under the trees of Greenwood, their hearts had been saddened but light when suddenly they were beset by a large horde of _yrch_.

The girl remembered little of the battle besides her fear. Suddenly the foul creatures had boiled out of seemingly nowhere, screaming in voices that hurt the ears. Their cruel blades had gleamed darkly in the light of the lanterns the elves carried to light the night and their eyes had shone with vicious fire. The child had screamed in terror, but her mother's arms had enfolded her protectively, shielding the little one from the sight. She remembered clinging to her mother with trembling arms, hearing the sound of metal clashing on metal and arrows released in the air over the sounds of foul orkish voices and cries in the elven tongue.

Then her mother had gasped and her arms had tightened around the girl; she heard her father's voice cry out in pain and end with a wet, choking sound that chilled her blood. Her mother had stiffened and started to speak, but the elf-woman had fallen limply then, covering her daughter as her feä departed her body. The child felt pain blossom in her head that she noticed only after her mother had gone still and liquid that was not tears dripped in her eyes. The world swam before her and darkness covered everything.

When she awoke, the silence was broken only by the sound of rain splashing heavily on thick leaves and cold flesh. Her memory was hazy, and she dimly remembered screaming for an eternity, a wordless wail of agony. At last exhausted, she had cast herself across her father's chest—unable to look at her mother's headless corpse—and sobbed painfully.

This was a loss that could not be endured, and the elfling cried even after she had no tears left, her eyes blurred with shock and tears and her hands stained a pale red with her parents' blood. They were cold, so cold, and she knew that she would never feel anything but this again. There was nothing left; life was extinguished.

Then the child raised her head and her dark eyes were a flinty steel. No; there _was _something left. There was vengeance and anger. Rising on trembling legs that somehow managed to support her weight, the elfling removed her father's belt with trembling fingers. It was too long for her slim waist, so she fastened it over one shoulder and across her chest. She wiped the black _yrch_ blood from her father's sword on the wet grass and grimly sheathed it on her back. Unable even to whisper a prayer to the Valar, she took a quiver from another elf; she could not see his face through the blood, and did not want to. Everyone was faceless now—even her nana—just another victim of the _yrch_. She gathered unbroken arrows from the ground to fill the empty quiver and slung it over her shoulder, balancing out the too-long sword with its weight. The child grimly lifted two long white knives from the muddy ground and tucked them inside the quiver as well.

If she was going to hunt the _yrch _down, she would need to be suitably armed. Picking up the smallest unbroken bow she could find—she did not want to think that it had once belonged to her cousin—she stared with unblinking eyes at the devastation before her. Wiping the tears from her face with a grimy, blood and dirt-coated hand, the elfling swallowed hard to quell her crying. She would have time to grieve when the _yrch _were dead.

Turning away, the girl walked purposefully into the forest. She did not look back.

She did not need to. The sight would be graven on her young heart for the rest of her immortal life.

However long or short a span of time that might be.

**

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**

So, the ___Nuzgûl's birth: _I was listening to my Nightwish cd--specifically the song "Fantasmic"--while reading some fics. Anyway, at one point the song slows down and says:

**A cub of the king betrayed by usurper  
A girl in the rain swearing to her fathers name  
Belle the last sight for the dying gruesome  
The beauties sleeping awaiting  
Deep in a dream  
For true loves first kiss**

Its the first two lines that got me, they were the Nuzgûl that bit me so hard I seriously got a headache and couldn't stop picturing the image of the girl and the thought of the prince for two days (well, one night and 3/4 of a day, really) until I finally gave up and wrote this. I don't know what I'm doing with it, or what it intends to do with me, but here it is...Any help here would be hot!

Anyway, if you did enjoy this and want to see more, let me know. I'm not trying to extort reviews to continue this—if the Nuzgûl makes me, I will!—I'm just seeing if anyone's interested, cause them I'm more likely to do it sometime in the next century. ;) All right, enough babbling from me!


	2. Just Before Dawn

_All right, the Nuzgûl that gave me this bloody fic idea finally started sorting itself out! Still not entirely sure how this is going to fit in with everything, or where it plans to end up, so it should be an interesting ride for all concerned—feel free to shout out any suggestions that pop up!—but we finally have a start!_

_Also, many thanks to everyone that reviewed! You certainly made me feel that it was worthwhile to pound this out. And no, I'm not really sure where it's going, either, but I'm glad you're all willing to find out!_

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**Chapter Two: Just Before Dawn**

The small band of elven warriors laughed heartily, the high ranked advisor who rode in their midst joining in just as readily, although he had played the part of the pun of the joke. In such company as they traveled, no hearts could be heavy, nor spirits low.

"I do not understand," a high, young voice piped up over their laughs. "Where is the humor?"

The elves laughed harder, and the advisor leaned over on his horse to lightly ruffle the pale blond hair of the elfling who rode next to him. "A, your highness," he chuckled, "'tis but your own high spirits that so amuse us," the elder elf replied diplomatically.

Legolas looked at him suspiciously out of the corner of his eye, but could see no hint of deception in the carefully innocent face that stared back at him calmly. "I think, Gwaebeth, you are not being entirely truthful," the elfling pointed out accusingly.

The elder councilor gazed back with guiltless eyes. The small company of warriors worked hard to hide their smiles and laughter from the sharp-eyed young prince. Legolas sniffed with supremely insulted dignity that, in one so young, only served to make it more difficult for the elves to restrain their amusement. Suddenly one of the warriors on the outer edge of their formation stiffened.

The other seven paused a moment later, eyes flashing to their companion. They had been together for so many centuries that they could nearly sense one another's thoughts, and when one of them noticed something wrong, the others were instantly aware of it as well. Gray eyes narrowed fiercely on the surrounding trees, searching among the dim shadows before dawn. Pointed ears pricked themselves, listening closely...but hearing nothing.

The woods were entirely quiet, and the elves were uncomfortable. The forest should not be so quiet, and a creeping foreboding whispered that whatever the explanation might be, it was not innocent. Unconsciously, they shifted closer to the young prince. Hands strayed to the hilts of swords and reached back to finger bows anxiously. Gwaebeth tensed, knowing that the warriors were worried, and thus doing the same. He guided his horse closer to Legolas's mount and spared a glance from studying the woods and soldiers to study the prince. The elfling was looking around at his guards, confused; he could sense the tension of the adult elves, and it distressed him although he knew no reason for it.

"Gwaebeth?" Legolas asked in a quiet voice. "Is something wrong?"

"I do not know, my lord," the advisor replied softly. "Stay close to me, young one."

The elfling nodded seriously, shifting anxiously. The horse sensed its rider's mood and tossed its head. Legolas absently soothed the animal; he was really quite a mature child for his young age. The prince was determined to excel at everything he did; it was not his own pride that the boy sought to secure, but his father's. Gwaebeth smiled fondly at the elfling—

Then he gave a short cry and slumped forward on his horse. A crude, black-fletched arrow quivered in the elf's shoulder. Legolas's bright eyes went round and wide, and his small mouth dropped into a silent gasp. The other elves were moving around him rapidly and he distantly heard the twanging of many arrows. Commands were being given in the Silvan tongue, but they made little sense to the young elf.

"Legolas!" Gwaebeth wrapped an arm around the prince's thin waist, wincing at the pain in his shoulder at the motion, and pulled him from his mount to settle the child in front of him. "Stay quiet, lord," the elf cautioned sharply. He felt the small head nod against his chest. Thranduil's advisor leaned forward, shielding the king's son with his own body. He could feel the small elfling trembling slightly, although the prince was doing his best to be brave—but it was hard when he did not know what was happening, only that an elf he had trusted to be strong and untouchable for all the years of his young life was hurt and worried. "Shh, your highness," Gwaebeth whispered to the elfling in his arms. "Fear not. We shall protect you."

"I know," Legolas whispered in a small voice, his face pressed tightly into the horse's mane. He wrapped his fingers through the strands of thick hair, swallowing hard. He trusted the warriors completely; there was no reason to fear. He would be brave. He was Greenwood's prince. He was not afraid.

Not very much, at least.

With his eyes closed, he listened intently on what was happening around him, but could make little sense of it. It seemed somehow that they were under attack, but that was impossible. The warriors were calling strange orders to one another, and the sound of arrows was sharp in the air. There were other noises, harsh ones, that seemed almost like a foul, guttural language of hissing snarls and growls. Then Legolas heard a word that froze his blood in already chill veins:

_Yrch!_

The evil creatures were assaulting them, but they were within Greenwood's borders, well within them! The _yrch _should never have come here, certainly not in such numbers as to risk battle with a well-armed and well-trained contingent of elven soldiers. What were they doing in his home?

The elves were riding as quickly as they could through the thick trees while still being able to fire behind them to keep the _yrch _at bay. The three elves in the rear had their swords out and ready, and they crowded around the prince and councilor thickly. The four elves ringed around the front of the mount that bore their charges were firing as quickly as they could focus on their targets, which was speedily indeed. They knew that they only had to hold out until the sun rose high enough to shed its full light through the thick canopy of leaves, which was a time not far distant. The _yrch _would retreat from the golden rays quicker than their arrows, for it hurt them nearly as much and caught them in greater portion of their ugly flesh.

But the _yrch _had greater numbers, and the elves were hampered by the child in their midst. They could not turn and fight for they dared not risk the elfling, but neither could they split up and flee as quickly as they could, for that would leave the young prince unprotected. Their duty was to see the child safely home to his father, and they would not let the _yrch _interfere with that, if it cost them their lives.

And they did not, although indeed it did.

Suddenly, Legolas felt Gwaebeth jerk against him, and the older elf slumped abruptly to the side. For a moment he fought to right himself, then stiffened and went limp. The elfling half-turned, trying to hold his guardian on the steed, but the other elf was too heavy for the child to manage from his awkward angle. "Gwaebeth!" he cried, but there was no response. Legolas froze when he saw that the other's eyes were closed; he shook him, but the eyelids did not flutter. The prince swallowed hard and looked around to the warriors for aid.

Then he cried out in shock as a rough hand caught his knee. Before the child could react, he was dragged from the horse, along with Gwaebeth's still form. Legolas twisted as he fell, frantically trying to escape the tight grasp on his leg. He pulled free and scrambled to his feet as soon as he touched the ground, but a clawed hand caught his hair and yanked him backwards. The prince gave another cry, then stumbled as the grip suddenly slackened. The _orch _crumbled with an elven arrow through his eye and another in his throat.

A strong hand snatched the prince's shoulder, and Legolas was swung up in front of Nilgallen, one of the warriors in the rear, as he galloped by. "Are you all right, my prince?" the elf asked fearfully. Legolas nodded, unable to speak through the sudden dryness of his mouth. The soldier's strong arm about his waist comforted him, but the child was still afraid. This was not the first time that young Legolas had encountered death, but it was unexpected and shocking nonetheless, especially given the circumstances.

"Tauranor," Nilgallen called. The other elf nodded at once, and fired three more arrows in less than it takes to draw breath before slinging his bow on his back once more. His sword flashed in the lightening dimness as he slowed his mount enough to allow Nilgallen to pass him.

The remaining elves shifted tightly around the prince and his new guardian, and the six riders continued dashing through the leaves and branches that leaned across their path. They had left the road early in the night—riding on for it had been obvious that the prince was too excited to sleep, and they wished to waste no time in seeing him home, and so had taken advantage of the situation. That was also the reason why they had chosen the shortcut they did. Thranduil was protective of his young son, and they all knew the king fretted whenever the elfling was away from him, no matter how safe he knew the child was.

Laervedui, the company's _gon_, wondered if that had been a mistake. While he inwardly suspected that the _yrch _had been seeking them, he did not know that, and wondered what would have led him to that conclusion. No, if the _yrch _had come across them in their camp, it would have been far worse, for breaking camp swiftly in the middle of the night would have been difficult to accomplish in time to fully flee, no matter how much warning the sentries gave. The _yrch_ were loud and clumsy, but they were unfortunately not as stupid as the elves often claimed they were. It was a foul, base cunning, but it could be employed with brutal efficiency.

No, Laervedui was convinced that riding on had been a good plan, not least for the reason that it had now left them closer to home when found by the _yrch_. The shortcut, however, had probably not been such a good one. While roads in Greenwood were often little more than deer trails or simple paths, they could at least be counted on to be traveled with enough regularity that any _yrch _lurking nearby would have been soon discovered. Of course, Laervedui would have thought the same true for the rest of the forest, but he had apparently been wrong.

He only prayed to Ilúvatar that the little prince not pay the price of his mistake.

The prince, on the other hand, was thinking only of Gwaebeth's lifeless body. He clenched his small hands into tight fists. He would not show fear in front of the warrior; he was Greenwood's prince, and he must be courageous in the face of danger—even _yrch_. He did not know that he was shaking slightly, but Nilgallen could tell that he was trying hard to be brave.

The warrior's resolve hardened; he would not allow any evil to befall the child. Legolas had quickly been gathered into the hearts of all the Greenwood Elves. The bright elfling with his infectious, ready laugh and strong determination to be equal to his role was beloved by them all.

Despite his vow of courage, Legolas could not restrain a sharp exclamation as the horse stumbled beneath him. The animal crumpled and the two elves were flung off. Nilgallen held tightly to the elfling and his sword—careful not to let the sharp blade graze his charge—and spun as he flew through the air. He landed gracefully on his feet and dropped into a crouch shielding the prince. The other elves quickly turned back and encircled them. Nilgallen rose quickly, elfling in his arms, and turned towards another of the soldiers. But before Nilgallen could pass the prince up to Tauranor, the _yrch _were upon them. The elf dropped back to the ground; the circle of warriors would not let the _yrch_ through to the child, but the black wave that broke upon them was almost enough to overwhelm and sweep them away.

Despite the numbers, the elves held at first; their blades were too swift for the _yrch _to overcome and dawn was beginning to edge over the trees. If they could keep the foul beasts at bay long enough for morning to come and send them fleeing from the sunlight...

Then Tauranor cried out and fell from his horse. The animal reared in panic and bolted into the midst of the _yrch_. Their cruel blades made short and bloody work of the horse, but Nilgallen's eyes were on his friend. The elf moved as if to rise back to his feet, but his hands slipped in the grass and he fell. Blood seeped from a jagged, pulsing cut on the side of his neck and dripped from his mouth. He met Nilgallen's gaze for a moment and his lips moved to form words, but his voice was silent. After a shuddering, wet breath so too was his breathing.

Before the remaining warriors could close the gap, _yrch _had charged. Pressing the prince to the ground and whispering, "stay here," Nilgallen smoothly rose to meet them. Shining elven steel met the harsh blades of the _yrch_ and he pressed them back, wrath smoldering in his eyes. He would not let these foul creatures reach the prince.

Not while there was life left for him to spend to protect the elfling.

But life was a fragile thing, even for the Eldar. It was so easy to end. All it took sometimes was a shallow cut from an orkish blade, and the Halls of Mandos beckoned.

Nilgallen felt a sudden fire across his chest and stomach and the light armor he wore shattered under the blow. He staggered backwards, dragging his suddenly heavy sword back up in time to meet a sharp-edged black blade. He parried and his sword danced in to decapitate the _orch_, but he seemed to be moving slowly. He glanced down at the broken armor hanging limply from his shoulders and was surprised to see it stained with red. _Yrch _bled black; why was there red on his chest?

He touched it with somehow shaking fingers, and realized suddenly that it was _his _blood. He stared in confusion at the wound and the liquid that was seeping from the jagged hole in his flesh. He looked up just in time to see another foul blade descending on him with glowing eyes of hatred in a leering face behind the sword. He moved to block it, but his arm did not seem to be listening to him. Suddenly he saw his sword fall to the ground from nerveless fingers. Then there was a flash of agony, and he felt grass on his cheek. He dimly heard a shrill voice shriek in terror, and knew that he needed to do something—but what? He could not think, could not...

The world spun around Nilgallen, and slowly faded to darkness as his eyes fell closed.

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_gon - commander_


	3. Yrch!

Warning: elf torture session ahead! Just so you're all prepared and the faint of heart among you have grabbed your tissues—and the more wrathful have put their swords down…if you kill me I can't save him, now can I? Hmm? That's it, restrain homicidal impulses…whew!

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Chapter Three: _Yrch!_

"What's this?" a harsh, guttural voice growled in Legolas's ear. The elf prince opened his eyes with a start, and shrank back from the horrible face leering down at him. The dark, leathery skin was stretched awkwardly across a scared and twisted visage. Legolas remembered hearing that the _yrch _had been elves once. He saw distant traces of the remote ancestry in the ragged but still pointed ears and high, harsh cheekbones, but on the whole the creature looked wholly alien. He had never seen an _orch _up close, and it was not a comforting sight. They were even more horrible than he had heard. The elfling dragged in a shaking breath, trying not to choke on their stench, and swallowed hard. His bright eyes were wide with fear, and the _yrch _gathered around him laughed cruelly, ugly gray shapes in the thickening darkness. Day had passed while he lay in unconsciousness and it was now night, leaving the _yrch _free to move about without pain.

The child glared then, remembering that he should show no fear in front of the creatures. He drew himself up with as much dignity as his small frame could muster and did his best to give them a withering glance such as he had often seen his father turn on foolish ambassadors or unwelcome messengers. It was a valiant attempt, and served to mask much of his dismay, but the _yrch _were used to finding signs of fear in their prey and Legolas was young. He could not fully hide the terror lurking in his eyes as he glared at his captors.

They laughed harder and a large _orch _reached out for him. Legolas shrank back in a fearful reaction he could not help but his wrist was grabbed in a tight, unwelcome grip anyway. The elfling's flesh squirmed at the loathsome touch, and he tried to pull away but the _orch _held him too tightly. He was drawn to his feet but not released. Anger flashed through the young prince and he twisted, trying to free himself. He lashed out with a lightly booted foot and kicked the _orch _squarely in his unguarded knee. The _orch_'s leg buckled slightly at the sudden blow and the surprising amount of force the child had managed to put into it. His toes smarted, but he ignored them. His free hand flashed forward and snapped sharply across the _orch_'s wrist joint and the evil hand released him.

Legolas spun and darted away, but his feet had not yet traveled two full steps before he was brutally grabbed and flung to the ground. He fought desperately, but the _yrch _would not let him rise. One of them hit him hard across the face and the elfling tasted blood on his lips. He gasped for breath but did not stop squirming in an effort to get free. They held his limbs down tightly, and he could do little more than throw himself slightly from side to side. The young prince had not yet panicked, but he was coming dangerously close to doing so.

Two more blows crashed against his face and the world floated for a moment. "Stop that!" a harsh voice commanded, startling him back to full consciousness. He knew better than to expect any mercy from the _yrch_, and increased his struggling.

"Look how bad our guest behaves," the large _orch _said with a fearsome grin. "These elves don't teach their brats proper manners. We'll have to fix that." He chuckled darkly, and was joined by his foul companions in laughter that grated on the prince's sensitive ears. His stomach did a strange flip-flop and he felt strangely cold. "String him up!" the _orch _commanded with evil glee.

Legolas was lifted by clawing hands and carried through the air. He writhed in their tight grasp, but was unable to break their grips. He refused to cry out in fear, much though he wanted to; he was a prince of Greenwood, and he would not appear afraid in front of the _yrch_.

The elfling had no idea how difficult keeping his resolve was about to become.

…………………….

Thranduil realized he was pacing again and stopped with a sigh. The elf king moved to the railing of the balcony and looked down into the yard of the palace. There was a gentle level of activity; there was always something to do in order to keep the palace and surrounding buildings in order and the elves that lived in them comfortable and organized. Actually, it was not so much a palace as it was a house that had gradually grown over the centuries to properly accommodate the affairs of the kingdom and those who lived within its walls. The bustle around the palace had grown as well, although it was still leisurely and sedate; the elves had little reason to hurry about their tasks. Usually it was soothing to watch his people in their tasks and pleasures, but today Thranduil wished that they would all depart and leave him in peace. He sighed again and absently ran a hand up and down the smooth wood of the railing, idling tracing the leaf pattern that had been lightly etched into it.

Where was _his _little leaf? The king shook himself and dropped his hand from the rail. He stared fixedly at a point on the ground, not allowing himself to glance towards the path that led to the south of the forest realm. He knew that Legolas was not due to return for three or four days yet, but there was always the chance that they would arrive early, and he would not want to miss the prince's return.

And, truth to tell, Thranduil was lonely. He was surrounded by elves he had known for lifetimes and many of whom he was quite close to, but he missed his son. He had not realized quite how much he had come to rely on the elfling's bright presence or how accustomed his day had become to being perpetually interrupted by the child. The palace seemed strangely empty without Legolas running lightly up and down its halls or skipping in the grass and trees outside.

The little golden head that rested on his knee was missing. The light songs of childhood no longer drifted in from the windowsills at all hours. There was no one to tuck into bed—often more than once—at the end of the day. And there was no small body that would sometimes creep into his room stealthily in the middle of the night, thinking that the king had not woken at his light footfalls, to crawl into bed with him; no elfling to wake in the morning, or be woken by before the birds called. Legolas had been away for a little over two and a half weeks, barely an eye-blink of time to the immortal elves, yet Thranduil had counted every day.

They had been separated many times before, but always it had been the king riding out to see to something while Legolas stayed behind in the palace. While he missed his son whenever they were apart, Thranduil had never felt this ache of loneliness before. Being home meant that his son should be here with him, and without the elfling it somehow did not seem like home; too great a part of it was absent.

Thranduil missed his little Greenleaf terribly, and was greatly looking forward to the prince's return. The child would surely be bubbling over with excitement and stories, and the king was eager to sit with his son while he regaled him with every detail of his journey. He sighed again, and absently fingered the leaf designs in the railing.

At least Legolas was safe, and would be home soon.

…………………….

"Let me down," Legolas commanded as defiantly as he could. The _yrch _laughed and he glowered at them, hiding fear behind wrath. "When my adar learns of this, he will be most displeased." The prince knew that displeasing his father was a bad thing that everyone took seriously; what he did not know was that these _yrch _had never seen him before, and therefore would not recognize him. He was so used to everyone knowing who he was—his blond hair, inherited from his father, made it obvious—that he forgot in his distress that the _yrch _would not. The _yrch _laughed harder and spoke to each other in their own hissing speech.

They spoke Common to the elfling, for he knew no orkish and they spoke no Elvish. Neither side had a full grasp of the language, but it sufficed for the short communication they would engage in. After all, who would _wish _to discuss things at length with _yrch_?

Legolas struggled against his bonds. He was tied now to two trees, his arms stretched up and outwards by the strips of rough hide secured tightly around his wrists. His legs were free, but only the balls of his feet touched the ground from where he half-hung. The moon and stars gave enough light to see the _yrch _clearer than the child would have liked. They were gathered around him, pushing and shoving one another for a better view. Legolas shivered under their gaze; he was not cold, although the night was edged with the chill of fall's beginning. His brown cloak lay where it had been cast away, next to his green outer tunic and pale silver undertunic. He could not think why the _yrch _would remove them; surely they knew that elves, even young ones, did not feel the cold as other races did?

The large _orch _that seemed to be the leader of the unruly band strode out of the crowd then and faced the prince. He leered with a mouth of yellowed, broken teeth that were still sharp enough to tear flesh with. "Ready for your lessons, elf-brat?" he asked with a dark chuckle that was repeated among the watching _yrch_.

"I am an elf; I have nothing to learn from mindless _yrch_," the young prince replied as haughtily as he could manage. The _yrch_, rather than being impressed at his noble tone, laughed, an ugly sound in the still night. Even the trees were hushed in the small grove; they murmured angrily at the presence of the _yrch_, but in whispers lighter than soft wind. The only sounds came from the filthy horde as they shifted and talked amongst themselves.

"Nothing to learn from us?" mocked the lead _orch_. He shook his head and leaned in towards the small elf. "Oh, I think we've got plenty to teach you," he grinned.

He scraped a black nail down Legolas's cheek, laughing when the child flinched from the foul touch. The prince set his jaw; he would not show the _yrch_ any reactions save anger and indignation. He was a prince of Greenwood, and he would be strong. He glared at the _orch_ but said no words.

"Quiet already?" the _orch_ sneered. "That won't last long, elf-brat. We'll have you screaming soon enough." The other _yrch _laughed loudly this time, eager for the spectacle to begin. The _orch _grabbed the elf's chin, tilting his face up to peer in it closely. Legolas summoned as much anger into his eyes as he could to banish the fear he felt. The _orch _laughed and released him roughly. He extended a hand back towards the crowd, and another of the _yrch _handed him a coiled black whip. He grinned broadly and snapped the weapon. Legolas gasped a the sharp pain that lashed across his chest, but snapped his mouth shut again; he would not cry out!

The prince stared at the _orch _in shock; none had ever raised their hand against him before outside of training, and he had somehow not expected the _yrch _to either, although he had heard enough stories of their viciousness that he should not have been surprised. The foul creatures were unlikely to have any qualms about harming an elfling. But that they dared his father's wrath…!

Legolas was firmly convinced that Thranduil was the greatest Elf in Middle-earth, and all would submit before his authority. That here, in his home, these _yrch _would flaunt it so far as to hurt the king's son had not occurred to him. Surely even the _yrch _would cower at a glare from his _adar!_

Then another lash landed across his stomach, and the thought was driven from his head. The wild laughter of the _yrch _echoed hollowly in his head as he squirmed helplessly in his bounds. He closed his eyes, willing the tears that had gathered in them to dissipate; they snapped back open when pain flared across his back. The _orch _had circled the trees and now whipped him from behind. Legolas clenched his jaw so tightly it ached; he would _not _scream. He repeated the thought to himself long after he had lost track of what the words meant, but he would not open his mouth to give voice to the pain that was tearing through him. The elfling shook painfully and writhed with each blow, but he kept silent. Blood ran freely down his chest and back, and dripped from wrists rubbed raw by the rough ties.

He could not hear the sympathetic whisper of the trees as they tried to distract him from the pain; it would not have been enough, in any case. All he knew now was pain, sometimes dull and throbbing then suddenly alternated with a quick, harsh burning that would fade to join the rest of the pounding ache that seemed to be consuming him.

It took a minute for Legolas to realize that the black spots dancing before his eyes were not the faces of the jeering _yrch_. Before he could puzzle out the shadows that were stealing his sight, darkness took him completely, and he sagged into unconsciousness.

But he had not screamed.

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And once more, thank you all for the wonderful reviews! I appreciate them _so _much! I'm so glad that you're willing to go along for the ride, and I hope I don't disappoint. Hannon le!


	4. Princeling

Once more, those in need, please grab your tissues. Also, squishy stress balls seem useful; far better to relieve your anger on them than the author! Remember, dead authors cannot update, and that means that the little elfling will not be rescued. Please keep that in mind as you read. Thank you for your consideration.

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Chapter Four: Princeling

Legolas woke to the feel of cool grass on his cheek. He clutched at the ground with aching hands and tried to stop trembling. His breath came in hitching gulps and he fought to stave off tears. He knew that if he started to cry, he would be unable to stop—and he would not let the _yrch _see his tears. His adar would come for him soon, he just had to be brave until then.

The elfling curled in on himself, trying to hide. He hurt all over; his wrists were sore and bruised and his fingers were still numb, but that was nothing compared to the burning lines over his chest and back. He could feel dried blood clinging to his skin, and fresh blood slowly oozing from the lashes. He pressed a hand to the stinging cuts on his chest and stomach and tried to ignore the throbbing pain from his back. He closed his eyes, trying to be silent, but the _yrch _noticed him anyway.

"Look boys, our guest's awake again," one of them growled cheerfully. His announcement was met with interested chuckles and strange speech in their own harsh tongues. "Ready for more fun, brat?"

Legolas's eyes snapped open and he scowled at the _orch_ that was taunting him. The dark creatures laughed. A consensus seemed to be reached in their guttural words, and one of the _yrch _stepped forward to lift him. The prince waited until he was within reach, then lashed out with his feet. The _orch _fell, his legs snapped out from under him, and Legolas shot to his feet. Rough hands caught his shoulders and pushed him back down face first into the dirt. He slashed wildly behind him with his arms and legs and was rewarded by grunts of pain. He almost scrambled free before a booted foot planted itself across his lower back. The flash of pain made the elfling arch with a silent cry and he writhed beneath the foot grinding into his wounds. Tears sprang to the child's eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Clawing weakly at the dirt beneath him, he trembled with pain and tried to breathe.

"Looks like he hasn't learned his lesson yet, boys," he heard a harsh voice say from above him. "We better try again. C'mon, you slugs, get him up!"

The foot was removed and foul hands grabbed the elfling. He struggled against their unclean grasp, but to no avail, and he was soon tied back between the sorrowful trees despite his efforts. _Adar will come for me_, he thought to himself. _Adar will come_. He repeated the mantra over and over as the harsh lash bit into his back. Silent tears of pain streamed from his tightly closed eyes, but his jaw remained stubbornly shut. Again and again the whip landed on the child's back; again and again Legolas promised himself his father was coming.

He had seen his father's wrath kindled before over far lesser hurts. Once a few years ago an ambassador from a kingdom of men had come to speak to Thranduil, and had brought his own two sons along to teach them the ways of the world. Legolas had been designated to entertain the children, but their entertainment stemmed more from teasing the elf prince than paying attention to their tour. He did not understand half their remarks, and at last upset by what they perceived to be his haughty refusal to dignify them with a response, they had started shoving him. Legolas had been halfway up a tree within seconds, staring down at these strange, incomprehensible creatures curiously, and no damage had been done—but Thranduil had seen, and not been pleased. The ambassador had left unsatisfied, and informed that the next time he or his children entered their woods would be the last.

The elf king had been scarred by witnessing the loss of so many brave warriors, including his own father, in the (for the elves) recent tragedy of the Last Alliance, and was slightly overprotective of his son. If Thranduil had been so upset at childish mischief, Legolas knew that the _yrch _ought to fall dead from the sheer fury in his father's eyes when he found them. He knew his father would come; he only had to be brave for a little longer.

His eyes opened in surprise as an _orch _socked him in the stomach. He gasped for breath, surprised at the new attack, and another blow crashed into him. The whip fell on his back and the _orch _beat him from the front. Legolas reeled under the doubled assault and twisted furiously at his immovable bonds. He thrashed wildly at each blow of the whip and staggered as the _orch_'s fist crashed into him. Blood dripped from where had bitten his lip in an effort to keep silent, and from where his fingernails had pierced his palms. His back was an oozing mass and the ropes that held him were stained red as they cut into his wrists.

The elfling could not fully restrain a sob. "Ada," he moaned. The whip lashed a particularly raw spot and he cried out in pain. "Ada!"

The _yrch _laughed so hard they had to stop hitting him in their mirth. "Listen to the elf-brat! Crying for his daddy! You think he's gonna help you, worm? We left 'em all dead! Isn't no one gonna help you now!" they taunted him.

Legolas's eyes flashed in anger. "You cannot harm my ada! _Aran_ Thranduil will lead a great host of warriors to kill you all!"

The _yrch_'s laughter faded and they muttered among themselves. King Thranduil? This little elf-brat was the son of the hated king? This changed things!

One of the _yrch _grabbed a jagged blade. "Let's cut him up and leave the pieces for the king to find!" he snarled, advancing on the elfling.

"Back, fool!" the large _orch _commanded, backhanding the other. "This little elfling is worth more to the master alive! We've wasted enough time! Cut him down and let's be off! We have to get to the next cave before the sun comes back!"

The _yrch _grumbled and hissed, but none dared defy their leader. Casting foul glances at the tempting form of the princeling, they quickly gathered their things. One of the _orch _cut Legolas down and the child collapsed on the ground limply. His head was ringing and he had to struggle to remain awake. The _orch _threw his discarded clothes at him and growled before stalking away. Legolas dressed himself as quickly as he could with his numb, trembling hands, wincing as the smooth fabric rubbed against his oozing wounds. His jaw shook as he gulped at the air and fought against his sobs.

He had to be brave. Adar would find him soon.

"Move, you slug!" one of the _yrch_ commanded him, directing a kick at the child. Legolas scrambled away from the blow, nimble despite his hurts, and rose weakly to his feet. The world spun and he clutched at his head in a effort to stabilize it. "Move!" the _orch _bellowed again and shoved the child. Legolas gasped at the touch on his throbbing back and stumbled forward on shaking legs. The _yrch _set off at a slow jog that he would normally have been able to outdistance within seconds, but after only moments he had almost fallen trying to keep to the pace.

Tears blinded the elfling and he could barely gulp air into his lungs. He staggered to his knees and an _orch _roughly dragged him upright and shoved him forward. Within only a few steps he was down again; again, he was lifted and sent stumbling, but he fell to the ground once more, panting weakly.

"Lazy elf-brat!" the _orch _that had been guarding him growled and Legolas heard the sound of a sword being unsheathed. He tensed, trying to summon the energy to move, but the blow never fell.

"Maggot!" the leader bellowed, slapping the _orch_. "I said we bring him to the master _alive!_ You wanna disobey me, you do it in pieces!"

"He won't run," the other _orch _snarled in explanation.

"Then carry him," the leader snapped. "We need to make good time to get to the cave before sunrise. Now move!"

The _yrch _leaped forward on his command and Legolas found himself being roughly slung over the shoulder of the _orch_ who had seconds ago tried to kill him. The stench of the foul creature made his head spin, but he forgot it as soon as the _orch _started running. With every step the cuts and bruises across his chest and stomach were rubbed across the _orch_'s roughly armored shoulder. Tears dripped from his eyes and blood from his lip as he restrained his cries at the pain. The elfling's small fingers dug into the _orch_'s shoulders and he swatted at the child's hands absently. Legolas flinched but tightened his grip, trying to steady himself so the jostling would not be so bad.

The _orch_ hissed something foul in its own language, but ignored the prince. He didn't dare hit him again for fear of loosing his head to the leader's temper.

Legolas squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shut out the pain. "Ada," he whispered bleakly, "where are you?"

aran -king

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**Thanks to all who reviewed! Your responses were really encouraging! Now, to address some individual concerns:**

**Alma, Malara, Katatonia –** glad you guys came over from "Exploring" to check this one out and offer insights/advice. Very much appreciated!

And **Alma**—will shame get you to update? 'Cause if so…SHAME! Now get in gear! ;) And good guess, on both points. I love Thranduil. As such, I am horrid to the poor guy. Go figure… "we always hurt the ones we love" or some such jazz…

**Random Pirate –** I'm really sorry you were upset, but thanks! Your reviews were lovely. Really, many thanks! I know, the death of Elves is heartbreaking. Even sadder than Departing…_sigh_…okay, enough of that before I get totally misty-eyed and lost. Will it help your anger if I promise that Thranduil does _eventually _get his hands on some filthy orcs?

And speaking of orcs…I'm sorry if my elvish threw people off because I didn't put translations for everything. _Orch _means orc, while _yrch _is the plural form. I try and put up translations for unfamiliar words, but more commonly used ones like _yrch _or _ada _I'll probably miss. If you ever encounter an unfamiliar word in italics, try going to elendor_DOT_net_SLASH_translator_DOT_php as that's where I get the majority of them. Sorry **orlandochick05**! Didn't mean to be confusing:)

Et **messenger of the Elvenking**—_merci!_ _Est-ce que l'historie bonne? Raconte-moi que tu as pensé, s'il vous plaît! Merci! Et non, je ne parle pas la français très bien, désolé—négliges les erreurs! Merci!_

— 


	5. Blood in the Stream

_Hey look, an update! Yes, this is unfortunately the last one before I go home this evening for winter break. I'll attempt to update from there, but I can't promise I will do so nearly as often, as I will have to deal with more time constraints (as well as sharing the computer with a little brother who's addicted). I also can't promise that I will resume my regular schedule of pretty-much-weekly updates on this story (or the every two day-ish schedule I had for_ Exploring Darkness_) when I get back, as I don't know how much work my new classes will give me. Rest assured, though, that I will do my level best to get each part to you as soon as I can._

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Chapter Five: Blood in the Stream

"_Thaur rig_," the girl cursed softly. Her gray eyes were dark and hateful as she glared at the foul beasts that were running through the woodland night. There were far too many for her to risk attacking; she could not die until she had killed them all. Such a statement would have seemed an exaggerated vow save for the fact that she was Elven, and thus immortal. Provided she did not fall to the black-fletched arrows or cruelly notched swords of those she hunted, there was indeed a chance that she could see her enemy eradicated.

But not this night. This night, they were too many for her. She was about to turn away in disgust, unable to bear the sight of them passing in front of her and doing nothing against them, when a pale flash of gold amidst the unclean black caught her eye. She turned back, her sharp gaze focusing on the small burden one of the _yrch_ bore across its shoulder. Her breath caught and her eyes widened in fear she had thought she was no longer able to feel.

_An elfling!_

Steely gray eyes narrowed to glimmering slits. The _aeg yrch _had a child, one even younger than herself. She no longer thought of herself as a child; she was no longer innocent.

But their burden—he could still be saved.

Moving lightly through the leaves and branches of the treetops over the _yrch_'s heads, she silently followed her dark prey and golden target through the night…

…………….

Legolas was jerked from a light doze that was more unconsciousness from pain and shock than anything restful when the _yrch _abruptly stopped. He was unceremoniously dumped on the ground and he hissed in pain when his abused back touched it. He curled in on himself, trying to shut out everything around him, everything he was feeling.

After a moment he became aware that the _yrch _were arguing. Curiosity won out over misery, and the elfling lifted his head. Peering through the unclean legs that surrounded him, he saw the bodies of three dead _yrch_. All three of them had been shot with elven arrows, although only one broken shaft remained—the others must have been removed by their killer. A few of the _yrch_'s black-fletched arrows littered the ground and trees as if they had attempted to shoot back at their attacker but the only blood the prince's sharp eyes could spot in the darkness was thick and black.

Looking around, Legolas realized that none of the _yrch _were paying attention to him. Those that were not involved in the argument—it was in their own tongue, and the elfling could not understand it—were either watching or taking their repose amongst themselves. It seemed as if, thinking they had broken the child and he would now meekly submit to their handling, they had mostly forgotten about him. Legolas was surprised at this turn of good fortune, but he was not about to wait around for the _yrch _to realize their oversight. He looked young, even for an elfling—his wide blue eyes and blond hair, so different from the purely Silvan Elves of Greenwood, made the prince seem younger than he was—and the _yrch _had apparently forgotten that even elf-children were wise in the way of those who had lived long…and they could cause great trouble when they wanted to.

They could also move silently. Careful not to disturb the grass or leaves beneath him, Legolas cautiously crawled backwards away from the _yrch_. The argument seemed to be growing in volume, and more of the creatures were watching the altercation now, some grumbling among themselves. Barely daring to breathe, the elfling inched behind a nearby tree. He paused a moment, gathering his strength, then quickly scrambled up it, careful not to disturb a single leaf or twig that might give away his presence. The tree aided the wood elf, whispering silent words of reassurance and cradling him protectively in its branches.

Legolas looked down on the _yrch _through the leaves below him. They had not yet noticed he was gone. Now certain that he was going to escape, the elfling smiled. He leapt lightly to the next tree, and nimbly scrambled away from the _yrch _through the forest. He would put some distance between himself and his former captors before he tried to figure out where he was and which direction he needed to head to get back home. A joyful song welled up in his young heart, but he kept silent; he was still within hearing range of the _yrch_, and he did not want to risk discovery. His wounds still pained him, but he was so overcome with happiness at escaping the _yrch_ that he hardly noticed.

He would soon be home, and adar would make everything all right again.

There was a sudden harsh noise behind him, and he froze on the thin branch; had they discovered his absence, or were they still arguing? Maybe they would simply kill each other in their rage…

But no; the crashing sounds that came from the forest behind him sounded as if the _yrch _were trying to find him. The elfling gulped and took off through the trees, fleet-footed and silent.

He was so preoccupied with listening for noises behind him and making none of his own that he did not notice the figure in front of him until he was upon it. He staggered for a moment on the thin branch under his feet as he abruptly stopped, but regained his balance with only a slight wobble.

"Mae govannen," said the dark haired elfling in front of him calmly. Legolas gaped in surprise. "Tolo," she told him, "we do not have time to rest! The _yrch_" —she spat the word like a curse— "are angered.Dawn is only a few hours away and they will give up the chase then," she continued, grabbing his wrist to pull him forward. Legolas winced and drew back. She looked him curiously until she saw the raw, bloody skin she had just touched, and her eyes darkened. Beckoning this time, she motioned for him to follow. He did, and she continued, "yet if they find us before the sun does, it will go most ill for us. They are too many for me to deal with."

Legolas nodded and silently followed the other elf through the treetops. There would be time for questions later…

He hoped.

…………….

The girl glanced back at the elfling behind her. He followed as quickly as she ran, although she could see him wince in pain whenever he reached for a tree branch or swung by his arms. Obviously the _yrch_ had injured him somehow, but as long as he kept up it did not matter—not now. There would be time to tend wounds after the sun had risen and chased the foul beasts back into their shadows.

She had no time to wonder how the _yrch_ had gotten the boy; only to run. They could speak later, once they had a moment of safety. She looked up, sensing a pale light begin to creep around the edges of the sky. The other elfling did not notice it yet, but the girl had become very dependent upon knowing exactly when the sun would come. When one hunted _yrch_ it was imperative to use all the weapons available, and the sun was a priceless aide in her private quest of vengeance.

"Daro," she whispered, and he stopped as commanded, balancing easily on a frail limb. The girl crouched into the leaves, motioning for her companion to do the same. The two elflings faded against the leaves as she listened carefully. She did not smile, but her eyes were lighter when she rose. "Tolo," she said then, signaling for him to follow. He nodded, and they resumed their run through the treetops, but this time she watched the ground rather than listening for pursuit.

The sun was rising.

"_Anor_," she whispered in welcome and relief as she felt the faint edge of the pale beams filter through the leaves of the forest. She smiled at the other elfling now; they were safe. The _yrch_ would have fled by now to spare their foul skin the clean light of the sun. She leaped lightly to another tree and he followed without hesitation. Three more trees, and they were at their destination. She dropped easily from the branches, slowing her fall to the ground by swinging down from limb to limb gracefully. She waited while her companion followed more slowly, careful of his injuries.

The girl watched him closely as he descended. His hair caught the faint sunlight and gleamed golden; but he could not be an elf of Lórien. His clothes were obviously those of Greenwood. The gray-brown cloak that blended seamlessly with the great trees was worn by nearly every elf in the forest when they traveled through it, or even beyond. His green overtunic that hung just above his knees and parted in the middle and sides so as to allow freedom of movement was made of a soft material the same hue as the leaves that had gently caressed him as he climbed. Underneath it he wore a pale, shadowy-silver tunic with wide sleeves that shimmered like water; true, it was a color more often associated with her kindred in Lórien, but it was worn in Greenwood as well. And the leaf designs that laced his soft green boots were unmistakable. He dropped lightly to the ground, and stared at her. His eyes—those were not the eyes of a Silvan Elf. The bright, piercing blue did not belong to Greenwood anymore than the golden hair, but somehow he seemed to.

The elfling was a puzzle, and the girl had learned in the time that she had been on her own that mysteries often led to trouble. But somehow she could not dislike him. He looked so lost and innocent, despite having somehow come to be a captive of _yrch_, but he tried valiantly to appear courageous. He had certainly never complained, although she knew he was in pain, and he had matched her pace without faltering despite whatever he had just gone through. The determination that shone in his eyes was bright, and she decided almost in spite of herself that she could grow to like this child. She thought of him as one, although as Elves went they were close in age, for she had not considered herself a child since…before.

For Legolas's part, he was studying the elfling in front of him with as much frank curiosity as she turned towards him. He did not know how an elfling had come to be out here, armed as if for war with weapons that did not fit her. And elfling she was, although he could tell that she was many years his senior. Taller than the prince, she was nearly as slim, but the way she held herself was strange. The long sword on her back was obviously too large and heavy for her to wield properly, and the bow and quiver that hung next to it were likewise. The knives tucked within were held with rags of cloth to keep them from severing the arrows they shared a case with, but even their handles seemed large for her young hands. However, she was carrying them all with a practiced ease that made Legolas believe that she could well handle the weapons.

She was dressed as an elf of Greenwood, with a gray-brown cape flung over her shoulders. Her dress was of dark green and full enough that it would not impede movement among the trees, yet not so full as to drag extra fabric that would catch among the branches. Not that elvish cloth often had a problem with that, but in Greenwood they were so surrounded by trees that it was only practical that the Wood Elves take such things into consideration. The long tunic she wore over that was a deep brownish red that carried a hint of purple in the folds, like the leaves in fall that were even now emerging amidst the green. The collar of her tunic rose about her neck and fastened in a slight **v** in the front, and Legolas could see something that looked like dried blood along its edge. Her boots were the same color as his, patterned with the standard edging of Greenwood leaves. Her skirts hung over them now, but he had watched her feet so closely to be sure of following without falter that he could see them in his memory. The archer's armguards on her forearms were cinched as tightly as they would go, but still ever so slightly loose on her wrists. They had been made for someone else, but they would suffice to protect her skin from the bowstring and keep her sleeves from disrupting her aim.

Her dark brown hair hung halfway down her back but half of it was pulled back in a wrap of braids at the nape of her neck. It hung crookedly, as if she had tied it up quickly without being able to see what she was doing. Still, it served to keep it out of her face, which seemed to be the purpose. She did not want her hair obscuring her eyes. They were of a steely gray and there was something in their sharp depths that was vaguely disquieting to the elfling as they studied him closely. It was a strange mixture of sorrow and anger lurking at their corners, slipping through when she moved her gaze.

"Who are you?" she asked curiously, still staring.

"Legolas," he replied at once, then remembered and corrected himself; he had to say it properly. "_Ernil_ Legolas Thranduilion," he said with a sigh, careful not to roll his eyes.

The girl's eyebrows shot up. "_Ernil_ Legolas?" she asked in surprise. "What were you doing kidnapped by _yrch_?"

"They attacked us as we were returning home," he said and grief filled his eyes and threatened to spill from them. "I…don't think anyone else survived, but they took me captive…" he trailed off and swallowed hard. "Who are you?"

"Call me Fuiniel," she said, turning away slightly.

"Fuiniel?" Legolas frowned. _Daughter of Darkness_; that was a strange name. And the way she had said it… "_call me_ Fuiniel." He tilted his head, looking at her in confusion. "Is that your real name?"

She was silent a moment, and seemed to be somewhere else. "It is all the name I have," she said at last. "The _yrch _killed who I was when they took my family." Her voice cracked slightly but she continued determinedly. "It is as good a name as any for what I am now."

"And what are you?" he asked, eyes wide.

She looked at him, and there was a coldness in her eyes. "A hunter of _yrch_," she responded shortly. "But come, you are injured. There is a stream here where we can wash your wounds." Fuiniel turned away, leaving Legolas to trot after her, thoughts spinning.

The _yrch_ had killed her family? How had that happened? And why had there been no outcry—had he simply missed it, not being at the palace? He would have thought that the dark news would have been all over Greenwood within hours, and it seemed clear that the elfling had been on her own for some time to be so comfortable with the weapons—weapons that, he thought now, had probably been scavenged from the remains of whatever massacre had left her so alone. He bit his lip, keeping his questions silent. He did not want to cause pain, and he knew that he had no wish to speak of his own experience with the _yrch_; he was sure she must feel the same.

Legolas hurried to join her at the small stream. The early morning light caught on the waters and sent little glimmers of sparkling gold dancing across it like jeweled water-striders. Fuiniel was sitting at the edge of the water, idly trailing her fingers through the glistening liquid.

"I am sorry," Legolas said genuinely, "I did not mean to cause you distress."

She shook her head. "Think no more on it. The distress was not of your making." Seeming to gather her will, she looked up at him again. "Sit down, and take off your tunics." Legolas complied as she continued speaking. "How were you injured," she started to ask, but stopped with a hiss when she saw the two ugly, still oozing lashes on his front, surrounded by mottled bruising. The prince turned to put aside the clothing he had removed, and she saw his back. Fuiniel could not help a small sound of shock that escaped her. Legolas turned at the noise, fear in his eyes.

"How…how bad is it?" he asked in a small voice.

The other elfling tried to smile encouragingly but Legolas could see through the pretense. "It's not, very," she said a little too quickly. "After it's washed, I'm sure it will look much better."

She pulled out one of her long white knives and set about cutting a strip from the bottom of her dress. Her hands trembled slightly, and Legolas wondered if it was because she was still humming with the adrenaline of their chase or if his wounds really looked that bad. He hoped it was the first. Fuiniel cut as straight as she could to prevent it from fraying or snagging on things; Legolas could tell upon closer inspection of the skirt that she had already sliced a thin ribbon from it.

She looked up from her work. "I would have cut it shorter earlier," she explained to his silent question, "only I had a feeling I would find uses for the fabric."

Legolas nodded silently and gently scrubbed at his hands and wrists in the stream. The water was chill, but it felt good on his raw flesh. Once the blood had been removed from his arms, it actually seemed to look worse, for the ragged wounds the bonds had cut into his wrists could be seen clearly for the first time. The elfling winced and rubbed lightly at the spots that were still bleeding a little, trying to encourage the blood to finish clotting.

He yelped and spun when he felt a cold, painful touch on his back. Fuiniel had wadded up a piece of the cloth cut from her skirt and dipped it in the stream. Their eyes met a moment, and Legolas tried hard to disguise how much pain he was in.

"Mayhap we should start with your front," Fuiniel said lightly. She could see easily that the elfling was badly hurt. She was no more eager than he was to start the delicate process of bathing the layered wounds on his back, some of which were quite deep and bloody. Starting by cleaning the two bleeding strips across his front would give them both a chance to brace themselves for the trial ahead.

If her abused heart had had any room left, it would have filled with hurt for the younger elfling. As it was, only a thin thread of aching sorrow wrapped in fear snaked through her thoughts. Perhaps there were worse things than dying to the _yrch_. There was always the possibility of surviving to them. Fuiniel had not thought of that. The only risk in her quest of vengeance had been going to Mandos to reunite with her family before she had slain all the _yrch_. Now there was another, far more frightening one. Her life held little value to the girl beyond the chance it offered her to strike back at the foul creatures, and so death had not scared her. But now she felt fear. It was dulled by her anger and pain, but it was still there.

What if the _yrch _did not kill her, but caught her?

With an effort, the child put the thought from her mind. Right now, all she had to focus on were the bloody marks in front of her. Legolas bit his bleeding lip but hardly winced when she touched the wet fabric to the lash across his chest. It was not deep, and had ceased to bleed a while ago. She gently cleaned the dried blood from his skin, and did the same with the slightly deeper one on his stomach. She was more careful there, for the bruising from the beating he had received could be clearly seen on his pale flesh. The darkening purple marks made her grimace slightly. It was like the _yrch _had been trying to cover the elfling with their own dark coloring.

She sat back and wrung out the cloth, watching the thin ribbon of red vanish in the flowing stream. Fuiniel swallowed hard and tried to hide the fear she knew was showing in her eyes. She dreaded what closer inspection of the prince's back would reveal, but she did not want to frighten him.

"Turn around," she told him, and Legolas obeyed, blue eyes wide. Fuiniel firmly set her jaw to prevent an exclamation at the bleeding, battered sight that met her eyes. When she lifted the wet cloth, she noticed her hand was shaking. She squeezed her eyes shut a moment, trying to calm down. After a few deep breaths, she tried again, and was relieved to see that the tremor had stopped. Wincing, she gently touched the cloth to his shoulders.

Legolas twitched violently and gasped. He tensed and curled his hands into tight fists, but remained mostly still throughout her ministrations. By the time the blood had been washed from his skin, the elfling's breath was coming it hitching sobs, but he had not made a sound. Fuiniel wiped her eyes dry before the other child could see she had been crying. He scrubbed at his face before he turned around, and she knew that she had not imagined the tears that she had caught streaming down his cheeks in the corner of her eye as she worked. She could think of nothing to say, and instead grasped his hand tightly a moment. Legolas smiled gratefully at her, and she returned it weakly.

They sat a moment, getting their breath back from the ordeal. "I'm going to bandage them now," she said at last.

"All right," Legolas nodded, wincing slightly as the soft cloth was wrapped gently against the worst of his wounds.

The two small figures sat by the stream for some time before sleep finally claimed them. In the daylight, they had no thought to set a watch, for shadow had not yet come to Greenwood the Great and the _yrch _did not travel under the sun. For now, they could rest on the soft grass, under trees not yet stained by evil.

But the evil was coming. It was only waiting for the right moment to make itself known.

…………….

It was impossible to tell whether it was day or night, for the only light that reached the small room came from the sickly ashes of a small fire in the corner created by the sloping ceiling of the cave as it met the rough wooden wall that had been erected within its deep confines. The weak gleam was little enough that it was impossible to tell that there was someone in the room until he moved, showing that his twisted, cloaked form was separate from his seat.

The heavily swaddled figure turned, a brief flicker of eyes visible for a moment within the deep shadows of his low hood. His faceless gaze seemed to fasten on the ragged cloth that hung as a crude partition between the small room and the rest of the cave. He stared, waiting patiently, as if for someone.

After a few moments of stillness, the curtain parted and an _orch _entered with a clumsy bow. The strange figure nodded at the foul creature familiarly, giving permission for it to speak.

"Master," the _orch _said, his voice a guttural hiss in the echoing cave. He fidgeted, shifting anxiously.

"What is it?" the cloaked one asked with a sharp whisper of air rather than actual voice.

"Urglug's patrol, Master, found an elfling with the warriors they slaughtered."

The figure waited patiently; there was more to the story. The _orch _would not bother to tell him such trivial news if it did not carry some import that he was nervously coming to.

"It seems the elf-brat was the spawn of _gold-head-slaughterer-son_," the _orch _spat, switching to his own tongue to curse the elvish king. The figure somehow went stiller than before, stiller even than immobile stone could stand. Even without knowing the Black Speech he would have recognized the _yrch_'s designation for the hated King Thranduil, for they cursed his name with regularity both within and without the borders of Greenwood the Great.

"Where is he?" hissed the twisted form from deep within the shadows of his cloaks.

The _orch_ trembled in fear, nearly cowering. "Master," he stammered, "the elf-brat—it escaped. Three nights ago. Urglug came back to report…"

The shadows in the room seemed to thicken. "Find him," he snarled in a pale whisper to the _orch_. "Find him and bring him to me."

The _orch_ nodded and backed from the room hurriedly, practically tripping over his feet in his haste to escape his dangerous master and the palpable wrath that was swelling from the cloaked, twisted figure. He slumped in on himself as the _orch_'s footsteps rang through the echoing caves. The dark cloak started to tremble with suppressed hatred.

"_Aragarweanlor-chil_," he cursed, his voice a twisting whisper of deepest darkness.

thaur — abhorrent  
rig — demon (taken from rog_, I just made it plural?hopefully correctly!)  
aeg — fell  
daro — stop  
tolo — come  
anor — sun  
ernil — prince  
Ar or ara — royal  
agarwaen — bloodstained  
lor — gold (color)  
chil — heir_

_

* * *

_

_Wow, that was a lot of fun...not! Let me just say, I have never before realised quite how many "—" I use in my writing. But when neither they nor ...'s—nor, for that matter, apostophes—show up properly and you have to go through by hand and fix them all...well, let's just say that you quickly learn how many there really are. So yes, that was this update's formatting issue. Any random question marks that I didn't manage to replace, please just do your best to figure out which of the above three it's supposed to be. And also I would appreciate it if you would point out any that I missed so that I can correct them. Thanks!_

Thanks, Alma!  
I think that's got them all...

**Once more, thanks to all! On to individual questions and concerns…**Oh, you mean that girl? Your wish, **Katatonia**, is my et cetera, et cetera… As for the _yrch_, well, I'll ask Thranduil what he thinks about torture. Then I'll tell him what they did to his little Legolas, and ask him again. ;)

Yay **Alma**! Of course, hard to update when the site won't let you… And sorry to disappoint, but as you can see he escaped before they dragged him into any caves. (And yes, I have recovered from my freak out. Sorry about that!) Maybe later…_evil, foreboding laughter! Bwahahaha!_

Sorry **megan**, no Thranduil this time. He'll be back next chapter!

_And look! I didn't even leave you with a cliffie! Hey, this does_ not _count as a cliffie! Foreboding, yes, but not cliff-hanger-worthy. I'm just nice like that…_


	6. Adarmel

Look! An update! We managed to eke out the time for an update! All dance ewok jigs of rejoicing!

* * *

Chapter Six: _Adarmel_

"Aran Thranduil!"

Those within the council chamber spun to stare at the panting Elf as he burst through the carved doors. Blood was clotted on his forehead, and still shone wetly as it seeped through the broken leather armor across his chest. His left arm was a bloody mass tied to his chest by a strip torn from his battered, sword-ripped cloak. He fell to his knees as he stumbled in, but quickly rose to his feet again. Blinking, he suddenly seemed to realize that there were more elves than the king within the room, and yet his gaze still seemed to reside somewhere distant.

"Aglarmegil?" Thranduil asked, rising in surprise. A knot of worry curled tightly around his heart. Aglarmegil had fought next to him during the Last Alliance, and had saved the then-prince from death at orkish blades by taking the blow himself. He had recovered, and had served Thranduil loyally in the years since the battle. He had most recently been part of the company escorting young Legolas. "What is it?" The King took an unconscious step towards the warrior, then stopped, unwilling to come closer.

"My lord—the _yrch_—they attacked—there were too many—Laervedui, Nilgallen, Gwaebeth, all dead…" He pitched forward, clutching his chest. Straightening painfully, he stared at the king with sorrow glimmering in his shadowed gray eyes.

The council fell into uproar. "_Yrch _in Greenwood?" "In large numbers?" "How can such a thing be?" "We should send to Lórien and see if they are also assailed!" "We must send out patrols to find their foul nest!" "Lórien has no use for our aide." "We should march on them at once!" "Post guards along the roads!"

"_No dín!_" bellowed Tarlas, his strong voice cutting through the din. The other elves fell silent as commanded, and one by one turned to their king as realization dawned on them. Thranduil was standing rigidly, taunt as a bowstring.

"Legolas," the king gasped, the word slipping from his tongue in fear, almost too quiet to be heard. Without speaking or acknowledging what the soldier had said, Thranduil turned rapidly for the door.

"My lord…" he could hardly bear to speak the words. "Prince Legolas did not return with me."

The elvenking froze, half-turned from the soldier towards the door. Aglarmegil swallowed; the room was utterly still. It seemed as if even the sound of the leaves outside the palace had ceased. Thranduil seemed to have been caught like an orch in sunlight, unable to flee but equally unable to endure. His long fingers trembled slightly before his hands clenched reflexively into fists.

"What did you say?" The king's words were spoken in a harsh whisper that burned with tension.

Aglarmegil bowed his head, and tears sprang to the Elf's eyes. "I am sorry, my lord," he replied quietly, his heartache audible in his words. "The _yrch_…they were too many; I could not find him. They…left me for dead. When I awoke he was not…I could not…" The shame and loss were overwhelming. "I am so, so sorry…" The warrior knew of nothing else to say. Surely there were no words that could ease the king's pain.

Thranduil did not seem to hear him. Swaying slightly as though suddenly ill, the king put a hand on the wall, steadying himself. His breathing came in shaky gasps and his eyes were wide and unseeing. He started to shake, but other than the slight, involuntary movement he stood motionless.

"My lord," Tarlas began sympathetically, but Thranduil cut him off.

"Leave me," the king commanded; his voice cracked slightly in pain.

The elves in the room looked at one another, but the king gave no sign that he was aware of their presence, or even of where he was. Eyes bright with sorrow, they filed out, many casting long looks of compassion at their unseeing lord.

Thranduil suddenly found that standing was impossible, and his legs buckled. Sinking to his knees, the elvenking pressed his face his hands and rocked back and forth slowly, moaning, with a grief too great for tears to speak. His little one, his Greenleaf, could not be gone. It was not possible; it was unthinkable; his son, lost to him?

The king's shoulders shook with dry, heaving sobs.

His Greenleaf…

…………….

"Ada, ada!" came the bright cry. Thranduil replaced the scroll on his desk and turned with a smile to watch as his son dashed into the study. The prince paused a half-step and ducked his head in a quick bob of a bow before running to his father and clutching eagerly at the king's long robes. "Ada, Gwaebeth said I could go with him! Ada, may I go, please ada? I promise to be very good and listen to Gwaebeth and do what I'm told and be polite and remember my manners and not cause any trouble and please ada, may I go?"

Thranduil laughed and lifted his young, very out-of-breath son in his arms. "Are you sure that Gwaebeth is willing to let you accompany him, little _las_?" he asked with a raised eyebrow staring down at the elfling's eager upturned face.

"Yes, ada!" he replied quickly. "I did not beg or anything, I simply asked!"

Thranduil chuckled. "I doubt that very much, _ionn nín_," he said, knowing full well how difficult it was to say no to the little prince's large, innocent blue eyes when they were fastened on you in silent hope. "But I shall speak to Gwaebeth, and if he is genuine in his desire to take you with him, then perhaps you may go."

"Oh, ada, really?" Legolas asked excitedly. "Is it true that Mîrlóm will get to hold the _lhaes_ when it is born?"

"Yes, little one; after all, the child will be her _muindor_ or _miunthel_," Thranduil said with a smile. For all that Mîrlóm was only a few hundred years past being a child herself, she had taken it upon herself to look after the little prince after the _bereth_'s…departure, much the way her father—one of Thranduil's trusted advisors—and mother—one of the best harpists in his court—had done for the king, although less surreptitiously. When Legolas had learned that Mîrlóm was going to have a sibling, he had begged for weeks to be allowed to see the child. It had been a few years since he had seen any of the family, for they had gone south to start a new dwelling with a few other elves some time ago.

Thranduil had been reluctant to let his little son go, for he could not spare the time to accompany them just now and although he knew that it was safe within Greenwood's borders, still he hesitated. It would be Legolas's first long journey, and he did not wish for the child to make it without him. After learning that Gwaebeth, who had stayed in the palace, would be traveling to see the birth of his brother's second child, the king had relented on the condition that the advisor be willing for the elfling to go with him.

_Willing,_ Thranduil had explained to Legolas,_ not_ meaning begging so that the Elf would have to relent. The child had nodded quickly; when you told Legolas no, he accepted the decision, but his blue eyes would fill with such longing that it was very difficult to deny him. Thranduil might be a firm ruler, but where his son was concerned, he often found it hard to hold to his resolves. Anything to make his Greenleaf happy—he shook his head, returning to the present as thin arms snaked around his neck.

"Perhaps, if you are very good," he told the child, "they might even let you hold the _lhaes _for a little, but you would have to be very, _very_ careful and do exactly as you were told." Thranduil's eyes were serious, telling Legolas that this was not something to take lightly. He knew the parents, and knew that they cared for Legolas as they did their own child, and felt sure that they would feel no hesitation over having the boy cradle the precious arrival. But he wanted to make certain that his son understood the import of doing so, and doing so properly.

"I will, ada, I will do just as I should," Legolas answered, nodding solemnly, the news that he might actually be able to hold the newborn child making his eyes wide with surprised delight. Thranduil chuckled and held the elfling closer.

"I know, _ionn nín_," the king reassured him.

"I do not know if I would like to have a _muindor_ or _miunthel_," the prince said after a moment.

Thranduil looked down at the child in his arms with surprise. "And why is that?"

Legolas snuggled closer to his father. "I do not know if I would like sharing you," he answered simply. "There does not seem room in your lap for two elflings at one time."

Thranduil's heart tightened painfully. His little leaf would never have the chance to know what it was like to have a sibling, good or ill, not after his mother had… The king blinked tears from his eyes before his son could sense his sudden flash of sorrow and hugged him tightly.

"That sounds slightly selfish to me, _tithen min_," he teased the child.

"I already share you with the whole kingdom, ada," Legolas pointed out sensibly. "I do not know if there is room to share you with another elfling. But I am sorry," he continued as his father's eyes moistened again. "I will try not to be selfish again. I do not want to disappoint you." The child's eyes were searching, hoping for acceptance as he looked up at Thranduil.

"A, dear one, do not fret," he reassured the little prince he held tightly in his arms. "You will always make me proud."

"Thank you, ada," Legolas said as he hugged his father. "I love you." The joy on his small face was like a light more precious than the most brilliant of Silmarils to Thranduil. He smiled softly at his little elfling.

"Of course, my Greenleaf," he replied, rejoicing in his son's happiness. "And I love you."

…………….

Thranduil lifted his head with an effort. Why had he ever let his son go off without him? He closed his eyes, trying to slow his shuddering breaths. Now was not the time for such thoughts; he had to be strong now, he had to bring himself under control.

The elvenking rose to his feet somewhat unsteadily. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard against the tears that would not fall, then strode sternly towards the door.

"Tiraran!" he called for his guards' captain. The Elf appeared at his side within seconds, matching the king's hurried pace through the sunlit halls that could not chase the shadows from Thranduil's eyes.

"Prepare a company. We will need scouts and soldiers; _yrch_ have attacked Laervedui's warriors. Legolas is now missing. We must find him."

Tiraran bowed and left quickly. Thranduil knew that the other Elf was likely already aware of more details surrounding the situation than he was. He would need his _gon_'s level head to keep him grounded. Already a burning wrath was spreading through the king's veins and shining in his overbright eyes. He thought of his little Greenleaf, alone in the woods, possibly injured. Worse, he pictured him a prisoner of the foul _yrch_, a bright little toy for their evil pleasures. His blood boiled and he trembled with his anger.

He did not allow himself to think that he was trembling with fear, for the acknowledgement would have broken through the brittle layer of control he had wrapped himself in. He was poised on the edge of a long drop, and only his anger kept him from it. That and his hope.

For Thranduil would not allow himself to think his precious elfling might be dead.

ionn **–** son  
nin **– **my  
lhaes **– **baby  
muindor **– **brother  
miunthel **– **sister  
bereth **– **queen  
tithen **– **little  
min **– **one  
gon **– **commander

* * *

**Reviewer Responses:**

**Katatonia –** it is _so _not a cliffie. _pouts! _How long, hmm…well, I guess, like Legolas, you'll just have to wait and see if she's willing to talk about it. But anyway, Thranduil's back! That should make some people very happy! Just wait, we'll have that warpath I told you about…er…_relatively _soon…

**Aranna –** what can I say? I'm an artist, I'm a sucker for specific descriptions…if I a) get the time to and b) get ahold of a scanner, I intend to draw the two elflings and post them somewhere on the net. I'll let you all know if/when that happens! And we have trimesters, 'cause it doesn't make sense to send us all home for Thanksgiving and then bring us all back and send us home again. And it's _always _"for now" isn't it?

**Alma –** thanks for catching those! Grrrr… I need some orcs to beat. Oh, Urglug…? But well, here we go, second part actually out! And now I'm flying off to my brother's band banquet, so I'm afraid no _Exploring Darkness _right now, and I bloody hope this works 'cause I don't have time to fiddle with it…crossing fingers!

I'll see you all, er…sometime! Hopefully soon! Best wishes and thanks again!


	7. Memories

Okay, guys, I'm really sorry it took so long to get this part out. Welcome home and welcome to December, huh? Anyway, I really appreciate that you all care enough to put up with my atrocious updating, and I hope the wait was worth it. Enjoy, and once again, apologies! And while I'm at it, let me apologize in advance: I have the quintessential bad feeling that it will be a while before you see chapter eight, too. Sorry!

Oh, and for anyone who knows as little about the Last Alliance as I did prior to writing this, Oropher didn't want to obey Gil-galad, and he charged too soon and 2/3 of Greenwood's forces were wiped out, along with their king, in the early part of the battles. Not necessary, but it might add a little bit to the understanding of the flashback, so there you go…Now, here you go, the latest bit:

* * *

Chapter Seven: Memories

Fuiniel blinked and sat up. What was she doing on the ground? She should be in the trees; the trees were safety. _Yrch _could climb, yes, but by the time an _orch _had scaled the branches to her level she could be four or five trees away, nimbly running on branches that the _yrch _would break with a touch. She has not slept lower than the birds since…

The elfling swiftly stopped her thoughts. That was the dangerous spot, the place that she would not go. That was where the memories and the pain lay. That was where the darkness waited to devour her. Shivering a little, the child shook her head firmly and pressed cold hands against her eyes. She could not think of that, not now, not again. She _would not_…

Fuiniel looked up in surprise at the repetition of the noise that had woken her. It was a faint, whimpering cry, like a scream that was smothered before it could be voiced. When her cloudy gray eyes fell on the form of the pale-haired elfling beside her, suddenly she remembered the previous night.

With a gasp, the girl scrambled to his side. Legolas was curled up in a tight ball on his side, small fists clenched at his mouth. His brow was furrowed and the dim trail of tears glowed faintly in the fading light on pale cheeks. His eyes were glazed in sleep, but their blue depths held a vivid terror. Fuiniel hesitated. Elves controlled their dreams, and as such, rarely suffered from nightmares, and she had no idea what was wrong with the little elfling. Had the _yrch _poisoned him?

Deciding that whatever the problem was, she ought to try to wake him and find out, Fuiniel gently grasped Legolas's arm—careful of his injuries—and shook him lightly.

"Legolas? _Ernil_ Legolas?" she asked quietly, face close enough to his pointed ear that stray strands of her dark hair dangled across his forehead.

With a start and a gasp that was almost a cry, Legolas suddenly sat up and twisted away from her. Fuiniel, surprised by the sudden movement, jumped backwards. They stared at one another for a moment. Legolas's face was pale with fear and his breathing was labored and uneven. His lip had begun bleeding again where he had bitten it and his thin shoulders shook slightly.

Fuiniel gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile. She tried to think of something calming to say, but found no wisdom coming to mind. Desperately, she grasped at fragments of memories had worked to suppress for the pain was too great to endure. "Don't worry, _tithen min,_" she soothed, hardly knowing what she was saying. "Nothing can hurt you now." As soon as she finished speaking, Fuiniel realized what she had said, and knew it for a lie, but it was too late, the words were gone.

Legolas's face smoothed slightly into a fragile smile and the fear in his eyes flickered behind a veil of trust. "Truly?" he asked in a voice that still shook slightly.

Fuiniel swallowed, unable to deny the elfling the scant hope he had seized upon. "Truly," she replied, although the words were bitter in her mouth. They felt like harsh ashes on her tongue, burning all the more when the little face in front of her lit up.

"Thank you," the little prince whispered.

Fuiniel reached out a hand towards him without thinking, and Legolas took it reflexively. They sat in the shadows of encroaching dusk, a small golden head leaning against the shoulder of the darker one. For a moment, there was peace. Suffering was still there, yes; but for the moment, hope kept fear away.

…………

Thranduil's hands were white knuckled around the long hilt of the sword he clutched in his hands. His face was set in a chilling mask, but it was pale enough to make his warriors fear for him and the slight trembling of his frame was enough to make his mount prance nervously. Thranduil knew to keep calm on a horse, for his emotions would upset the animal, and he had had thousands of years in which to learn control. But everything failed him now. His little Greenleaf was in danger, and he was not there to save him.

The Elves around him were as fearful as their liege, not least of all _for _the king. After what had happened to the queen, they feared that losing the little prince would be enough to destroy Thranduil. If he did not die from grief, it was more than likely that he would depart for Valinor, and what would Greenwood do then? There were many brave elves who could lead their people, but they were not the king, and their trust had been placed in the House of Oropher for eons. Thranduil had earned their respect and their allegiance—and their love. He had ruled them well since his father's death, and his own part in the Last Alliance had been cause for song. The invincible golden head had given them hope when all seemed doomed, and he had led them through the Shadow.

But now it seemed that this fierce warrior who had not flinched before all the hordes of Sauron at his most powerful was about to break, and they were frightened. If Thranduil fell…

…………

A blur of gold shone undaunted on the field. The smell of death and blood choked the air as surely as the smoke from the foul land did, but the thick clouds could not prevent the weak but resolute sunlight from glistening on the long golden tresses, sending them afire in the midst of the black chaos. It glimmered on the razor sharp edge of his flashing blade as it twirled through the enemy. It shone in darkened blue eyes as a great and unquenchable wrath.

Blood, both red and black, of his veins and those of his allies and enemies, was clotted in the bright silken strands. The silver-steel of his sword shone in bright patches through its dark coating of the same thick liquid. The Elf ignored the blood dripping down his face and wrists, hoping absently that it would neither obstruct his vision nor slicken his grip on the long hilt in his white-knuckled and blood-splattered hands. Some of the blood staining his pale skin was his own, for not even his skill would lead him through this clash unmarked, but most of it belonged to his enemy—and to his friends.

He would not allow himself to think of whom he had lost to this Last Battle, not yet. His eyes were cold and steely; the only emotion that gripped his heart was rage at the foul _yrch _in front of his sword. Once the battle was done, then it would be time to count the wounds, the loss. Either they would win, and be able to give in to their deep sorrow, or they would lose, and sorrow would not be enough to describe what would happen next.

Thranduil spun under the thick blade that whistled at him from behind. The _orch _he had been crossing swords with a moment ago grunted in pain as its ally's weapon half-severed its head. Before the attacking _orch _could yank its sword free, the Elf had smoothly slit upward with his own sword and cut through the thick armor and dark skin. He hardly bothered to dodge the spray of black blood; usually the elves would nimbly avoid _orch _blood, but this day they had largely stopped caring. It was impossible anyway; there was so much death filling the fields that stepping aside from one flow of blood would only land you in another.

Their eyes were bright only because of the rage that burned in them. The battle had long ago killed the light that normally shown from the star-filled, ageless depths. Now all that remained was brittle hope half-forgotten and their burning hatred of the _yrch_ before them.

The foul creatures surrounded them, a seemingly never-ending horde of darkness and evil. The prince had not noticed when he and a few elves were separated from the rest of their people, but now that black tide swept all around them. There was no fear in the Greenwood elves as they faced the _yrch_, however; they had no time for it. All their awareness had shrunk to the next creature to slaughter with their swords, the next blade to avoid, the next _orch _to destroy.

The next friend to fall.

Their world was a small spot of light reflected off bright, bloodstained armor and dark-drenched swords. The battle had shrunk to one tiny point of gold surrounded by darkness—and by despair. But the elven warriors refused to give in to the Shadow. Death had surely come for them that day, but they would not go to Mandos without wrath in their hearts and black blood on their hands. They would meet their death unflinchingly, for the one leading them never faltered.

Even when the jagged blade cut into his side, bringing forth a seeping spring of crimson to stain his already blackened armor of once-bright green-gold, his eyes did not flinch. Thranduil grunted slightly, and calmly dispatched the _orch _that had dared to wound him. He moved on to the next, barely registering the fact that he was injured, his sword flashing as fast and his movements as nimble and graceful as ever. In the face of such grim determination, what Elf would quail? The small group of warriors flocked to the bright, unbowed gold with steel in their gray eyes and in their firm hands.

If death had come for them, it would not take them lightly. Let the _yrch _press, they would withstand the evil and the darkness. They had their _aralor_, they had their gleaming lord standing strong before them. They had lost much, but not everything; hope might have departed, but despair had not yet conquered their hearts. One had fallen, but one remained, and the flame in his eyes was strong and unbowed by either fear or grief. They would not falter until the golden beam they followed did.

And falter he would not.

The blood streaming down his side hardly registered in Thranduil's mind. The screams of the dying had been long ago forgotten. The grief that threatened to overwhelm was only a faint whisper in his heart of things to come. Death was nothing, only the action of slicing through the _yrch_ and leaving them still of the field as they pressed against the black tide that swarmed around them. His voice was silent in his throat, the scream that roared inside his head trapped behind tightly pressed lips. Noise had faded from his consciousness; his scream was as still as those around him that he did not hear. The clashing of steel and cursing of _yrch_, the cries of his people and clatters of weapons were soundless echoes. None of it was important; nothing could penetrate the cold fire within his veins, the sharp mirror of blank wrath that shone in his eyes.

All that mattered was the battle. Whether here or in the Halls of Mandos, he could feel after it was over.

…………

He could feel after it was over. After his Greenleaf was safe again. He could crumble then, when his child had been returned to his aching arms. For now there was nothing, only a trembling wrath shining in dark, steely blue eyes. Tears unshed burned within them, and burned within his heart. But he could not cry. A wordless scream of grief and rage echoed silently in his head, throbbed mutely in his throat. He could not shed his tears, he could not speak his scream; he could not sense his fear. He could feel after it was over. For now, there was only death; death to bring to the _yrch_ that had dared to touch his son. All that mattered now was that.

Find the _yrch_. Find his Greenleaf. After it was over, then he could feel.

After it was over, he could weep.

…………

"We ought to be on our way," Fuiniel said softly. "Are you all right?"

Legolas nodded and sat up, wiping tears from his blue eyes. Fuiniel released his hand and stood up, straightening the sword and bow on her back. She bit her lip and looked away from the elfling, uncomfortable with the lie that still burned on her tongue.

"I am sorry," Legolas said in a small voice. She turned back, curious.

"What for?" she asked, puzzled.

The golden haired elfling looked down at his feet, scuffing the dirt slightly. "I am sorry that I was not brave enough," he said in a small voice. "I should not have been afraid."

Fuiniel did not know what to say. "Do not concern yourself," she told him after a strained moment. Her mind raced, trying to come up with words that would help. Filtered somewhere through suppressed memories, the speech of warriors in training came to her hazily. "It is nothing to be ashamed of. The _yrch _are foul and they did terrible things. There is nothing wrong in feeling fear after the battle is done, and you showed courage when it mattered."

Legolas looked up and his face brightened like a sunrise. "Hannon le," he said, and wrapped his arms around the other elfling. Fuiniel tensed; the last embrace she had felt was the chill one of her dead parents. She relaxed slightly, and gingerly returned the hug, resting her cold cheek on the pale head.

Then she stepped back, breaking the embrace. "We ought to go," she said gruffly, shaking away the moment of closeness. She could not afford it. The _yrch _were still out there, and her heart was hard. "The _yrch _stir at night, and we should be moving in the trees before they are moving on the ground."

"All right," Legolas replied, and leapt lightly upwards. He scrambled nimbly through the branches. Fuiniel shook her head again and frowned, forcing her thoughts to the matter at hand, before jumping up as well. Motioning for Legolas to be silent, she started through the leaves as the sun above them started to sink, casting colors and shadows across the green through which the ran. Her eyes did not see the spectacle, however; they were turned inwards, fighting against memories that were better forgotten.

Memories of darkness, that tried to once more claim her thoughts and _fëa_…

ara – royal  
_lor – _gold  
_fëa – _soul

* * *

Reviewer Responses:

Fear leads to anger, anger lead to hate, hate leads to…er, sorry about that **Malara**…channeling a little Yoda there…;) Gotta love adorable little elflings, don't you? I know I do! I'm practically having a cute attack writing the bloody thing…I think of my kitten and how much I _awww _over his antics and try to keep that aura in mind when I write him. I'm glad it works!

**Katatonia –** Well, how about now? Sorry it took so long:( But yeah, I've sort of fallen in love with Thranduil; he's eked out a much larger role than he had originally, he's just so cool!) About the siblings; we actually know just about _nothing_ about Legolas's family—sorry, rant coming on…  
But seriously, Legolas gets the least background and description in the whole Fellowship! I think he has _one paragraph _in the appendices, and that's because Tolkien was telling us what happens to Gimli! Drives me nuts—it's like, you make _such _a great, comprehensive history, and then you gyp one of your characters out of _anything? _We don't even know what color his bloody hair is, for crying out loud! Here's our descriptions: a strange Elf clad in green and brown, who wears light shoes instead of boots. There we go; that's your introduction to Mirkwood and its prince. Grrr… It's the elven realm we visit in _The_ _Hobbit_, and we know almost _nothing _about it! Um, I think I'll stop before I really get going. This is one of my pet peeves, in case you couldn't tell…  
But yes, getting back to the review: since we _don't even know the name of his mother _let alone any siblings that may or may not exist, we get to make _all _that up. Most people give him a pretty big family, but I decided to make him an only child. There's debate over him being a younger son, because it only makes sense that you would send a lesser prince (definitely not the heir) to deliver the message about Gollum, and then he goes off on a mission for Elrond without (apparently) worrying about his kingdom. But that's a human attitude in my opinion; when you're immortal, the whole thing about the _heir _becomes a lot less dire. (And there could _so_ be another rant there about elves that are written too "human" but I'll restrain myself!) Since _we don't know anything in canon _it's all a matter of preference, and I chose to not create any brothers or sisters because they'd only be in the way in this story, and I think it would have diluted some of the power of the relationship—and the angst. Heh heh heh…Loadsa love to you too!

Oh, anyone wondering about the late and laptop references: I took the train home, but it was two hours late. Then for my twelve(ish) hour ride, I had planned to read a story by Thundera Tiger I copied down to my computer and then do some writing (like, a lot) but turns out my battery only lasted one hour. Charming, no? Yeah, that's exactly what _I _thought…

Thank you **Alma**! So glad you're liking Thranduil. Like I said, he's kinda stealing a bit of a bigger role than he originally had, but I really can't begrudge him it—he's just turning out so cool. I'm glad you like him as much as I do! And no. I am _definitely _being _very _careful to stay out of his way. I'm not _that _suicidal, thank you! Gulp!

Aw, **Aranna**, should I have offered tissues last chapter too? At least nobody needed any rubber stress balls to beat up. Sorry, soon as I could…

I know, **East Coastie**, I know, it's been forever…I'm sorry everyone…Hopefully the long wait didn't dilute all your anger at the evil orcs! I know it didn't affect Thranduil…as you've just seen…


	8. Silence

Hey all! To celebrate my birthday (not that it makes a whit of difference; I can already buy all my lovely LoTR swords, so it no longer matters my age, does it?) I have a present for all of you: an update! Yayness!

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Chapter Eight: Silence

The distant red sunset was stained green by the thick leaves overhead. The last light of the fading day brushed the edges of the thin branches with greenish flame. The thin boughs swayed slightly, although there was no wind, and the leaves faintly rustled.

Through the treetops, nimble as squirrels and even quieter, flew two young elflings. The one in the lead was burdened with weapons too large for her small frame, but they did not impede her movements. Her face was grim and her gray eyes burned fiercely. The smaller elfling following her was even lighter on his feet as they scampered on the thin twigs and limbs of the high trees. His face was set firmly in a brave mask, but his blue eyes were anxious. A shadow of pain hovered over his pale features but he did not slow.

The children made no more noise than a light breeze would. "We must be silent," the girl had whispered when they woke at first hint of dusk. "_Yrch _infest this portion of the forest, and they move at night." The other elfling had nodded seriously. He had experienced orkish hospitality first hand, and had no desire to repeat the process. They flitted, silent green shadows in the trees, quick and fleet footed. No words passed their lips; they did not wish to draw the _yrch _down—or _up_—upon them.

The trees offered safety, but not completely. It was up to elvish stealth to do the rest. And while they were young, they were hardly clumsy.

Hopefully, that would be enough.

……………..

The horses galloped easily through the thick trees, used to the forests and handled skillfully by their masters. Their hooves thudded softly on the grass-covered ground and the leaves that flew by brushed lightly at the elves in swift caresses rather than whipping them with their branches, as they would have done anyone else riding through them at such a pace.

The afternoon sun was heavy and thick in the air and gleamed darkly on the heads of the warriors. It shone with a fiery light around Thranduil's golden tresses, burning with vengeance terrible. A great wrath shone in his eyes, lighting the forest as much as the gleaming orb overhead. The king's face was hard and drawn, his lips pressed into a thin line. He spoke no words, for then his mask would crack and all hope of control would be shattered beyond recall, but he did not need to. His warriors followed him into the dark trees without hesitation. The faces of the elves were grim and tight as they flew through the trees. They knew there was no hope, but they would never admit it.

Not so long as their king led them.

And lead them now he did, at a pace so swift it would have impressed the _Meras_. A great desperation had seized the elven lord, and all his thoughts were bent towards his missing child. Let the _yrch _beware and flee in terror, for Thranduil rode in wrath this day. His child was missing, and he would find him—and woe to those who had touched the elfling with darkness in their hearts.

Let the _yrch _flee while they could; he would meet them with his sword-blade soon enough.

_No one_ hurts his little Greenleaf

……………..

Legolas blinked and sat up, rubbing the glaze of sleep from his eyes. They had been traveling for some time, moving at night and sleeping during the day when they were safe from _yrch_. They had not seen any of the foul beasts since Legolas's escape, but Fuiniel insisted they be careful. Rather than set watches, they slept under the sun, high among the branches of the sheltering trees.

The little prince frowned, wondering what had awakened him. He listened hard to the silence of the forest—there was something wrong, but he knew not what. Then he suddenly realized; the forest was silent. That should not be. The trees were tense and the animals were absent. Shivering slightly, the elfling looked around, but could find no sign of danger—and yet, he could _feel _it! If Legolas had been older, he would have known to trust his instincts; he was, after all, a Wood Elf in Greenwood, where the trees were thick and friendly. But Legolas had never been in jeopardy before, and he did not know to heed them.

Still, it was dark, and they should be on their way. Both elflings had been tired, and had slept longer than the ought to have. _Yrch _moved at night, and they needed to do likewise. Legolas nimbly crossed the thin branches they used for their beds, and moved to wake Fuiniel.

She sat up quickly, her gaze clear and sharp in an eye-blink. She looked around, puzzled, and suddenly tensed. "It is silent!" she hissed in a fearful whisper.

Legolas nodded, confused and a little frightened now. Something was wrong, he knew for certain now. Fuiniel shot to her feet instantly and darted to a lower branch, scanning the forest intently. "Wait here," she whispered to Legolas, and dropped from the branches.

The elfling landed lightly on the ground and dropped to her stomach. Her gray-brown cape and dark green dress blended smoothly with the forest floor, and while she was easily visible to Legolas's sharp eyes any creature without elvish vision would have had trouble distinguishing her still form from the leaves and grass beneath her. Suddenly, the girl stiffened, and looked up at Legolas. Her eyes were cold, and her face was an icy mask that almost completely hid her fear from the little prince.

"_Yrch_," she gasped sharply, and leaped back into the tree. It took less than a second for her to scamper up to Legolas's level. "I felt their thundering feet through the earth," she explained in a hurried whisper. "Come, we must make haste! I know not if they are tracking us, but they will come in moments, and we cannot be here then!"

Legolas nodded, mouth suddenly too dry to form a reply. Light as squirrels, the elflings darted through the treetops, fear clenching their young hearts. The _yrch _had found them!

……………..

Thranduil leapt from his horse before the animal had come to a stop. The warriors behind him quickly halted their own mounts around the king's and stared in shock. The elven king fell to his knees next to the bloody bodies, his face a mask of horror and despair. Thranduil's hands trembled as he frantically searched through the gruesome remains. Someone grasped his arms but the king brusquely shook Tiraran off without registering his presence.

The grisly sight before him played tauntingly in the king's pale blue eyes. The black-coated bodies of _yrch_, their blood dry and thick on their repugnant limbs lay like burned and discarded statues throughout the forest. Intermingled with the creatures were his own people, eyes closed forever or wide and sightless. Never again would starlight dance in their depths, nor sunlight catch on their voices. Blood and gore coated the chill corpses, some of which lay scattered in more than one spot. The _yrch _were brutal, both in killing and in sport after death. In his distress, Thranduil did not notice that there had been far less despoiling of the bodies of his people than was common after an _orch _victory.

Nor did the king see the warriors who had accompanied him, faces pale with shock and horror or bleak and somber, depending on age and experience. The elves moved amongst the carnage, silently searching the bodies of their kin for signs of life that would never be found. They gently lifted the butchered corpses of friend and family, composing limbs twisted in death and soothing hands that still clutched blood-blackened weapons in some macabre parody of defiance.

Thranduil staggered to his feet, elvish grace and composure forgotten, and stumbled down the trail of death. He gave a soundless cry when he saw the body of a dark-robed Elf in blue and gray before him. Thranduil collapsed besides his friend's remains. His blood would have burned at the sight of the black arrow rising tauntingly from the Elf's flesh, like some vile mockery of a banner, but he could not feel it. Blood had stained the once night-sky robes a rusty red as it seeped from the deep wound of the jagged blade that had nearly carved the Elf in two. Thranduil turned the body with trembling hands. Gwaebeth's eyes were closed and his pale face was smeared both in his own blood and the foul black liquid of the repulsive creature the body lay strewn upon.

Thranduil sank back limply in the bloodstained and gore-scattered grass. He could feel no sorrow for his friend. The king struggled to breathe, fists clenching and unclenching reflexively. With a shuddering gasp, he lurched to his feet. The raw distress of his pale face was strong enough to hit like a physical force. Trembling violently, the king struggled to bury his anguish beneath an icy veneer of control. Slowly, agonizingly, Thranduil's expression settled into a thin, stretched mask of discipline.

His Greenleaf was not here.

Legolas lived.

A fire raging in pained blue eyes, the Elf-king stalked through his blood-shadowed forest. He jerked a hand to signal his warriors; if he spoke, he would not be able to keep from screaming. The elves fell in silently around their lord, needing no verbal command. Wraiths of dark green vengeance, they flowed ghostlike between the trees, noiseless footsteps soft on the blackened leaves. They would find the prince; they did not allow themselves to acknowledge the cold doubt in their hearts. Silent tears streamed down Thranduil's cheeks, but he made no sound. He could release his grief when this was over. Now was not the time to feel. Now was the time to act—before it was too late.

An aching wound gaped in Thranduil's silently eloquent eyes. His Greenleaf was somewhere in the woods, alone—or worse, not alone.

With the _yrch_.

……………..

Fuiniel glanced back at the elfling following silently behind her, wondering what it would be like to be at the mercy of the _yrch_. She knew that she ought to be concentrating on the forest around them, for there was grave danger close at hand. She might soon be able to have her questions answered first-hand. But she could not tear her thoughts away. The fact that the _yrch_ were nearby and quite likely hunting them only served to cement the distraction more firmly in her mind.

Fuiniel had spent some time in both hating and hunting the _yrch_; it had been enough months since…_it _had happened that she had fallen into a pattern. Her heart had torn at her at first, but she had quickly realized that allowing herself to feel the pain was too much to endure. And so she had shut it off, had stopped feeling anything at all except a dull ache and a continual, cold hatred.

But now she felt…curiosity.

It was strange, this almost forgotten emotion. The _yrch _did not inspire much interest. The only things to wonder about the foul creatures had been where were they, and how best to kill them. She had studied their movements with a hunter's eye, but she had not even been _curious _about anything they did. She did not need to understand them, she did not _want _to understand them. All she needed to do was kill them. But the elfling…

She found herself glancing over her shoulder at the young prince behind her, and firmly turned her face forward. It would not do, either in that it distracted her from the trees and sounds she ought to be paying attention to, nor in that her interest might well make the elfling uncomfortable. And yet, she could not stop thinking about it. She had seen the wounds the _yrch_ had left, she had seen the pain they had caused. And yet…she frowned, confused. And yet, Legolas did not seem to dwell on it. Even the first few nights, when he had been plagued by dark dreams, there had been very little shadow in his eyes. And gradually, the nightmares faded.

Fuiniel could not understand. After what he had gone through, his companions slaughtered before him and himself taken captive and tormented by the _yrch_, she would not have expected him to be as he was. The elfling seemed to hardly be affected, at least to her eyes. She had not known him before, and thus could not tell whether a change had come over the child or not, but she did know that it was nothing like she would have thought would occur.

Legolas still smiled.

Fuiniel could not remember the last time her face had truly relaxed in joy, or the last time she had laughed. Yet somehow, the prince did both easily. Fuiniel had even smiled slightly herself—it had felt strange, but gradually her face had adjusted to the slight quirk of her lips, curving in good will rather than dark promise. She did not know how he did it. She had never thought to smile again, and yet even after the horrors he had endured he _laughed_.

Fuiniel was confused, and a quiet whisper gnawed at her thoughts. She tried to silence it, but it refused to leave her be. The forest had seemed dead to her, the trees' whispers useful only in alerting her to the _yrch_. The stars had served only as light by which to find her prey, their warmth no longer felt. The air had been only a conduit of their foul stench, drawing her to her hunting rather than singing to her ears or speaking to her of nature and life. Life had ended for Fuiniel; only shadows remained.

But then there was Legolas…she glanced back once more. The golden-haired child scampered lightly through the trees, sparing a smile or a touch in gratitude and familiarity to the branches and leaves that carried them. His eyes still held life, still captured the distant starlight above the canopy through which they ran. Fuiniel's gray orbs did nothing but reflect the stars, flat and lusterless. Something stirred in Fuiniel's heart, and it troubled her.

Was it life reawakening? And if so, did she truly want to feel—to live—again?

……………..

Night had fallen in Greenwood the Great.

The small company of elven warriors slipped silently through the lengthening shadows of the tall, thick trees. Their eyes glittered with death in the darkness.

At their head walked Thranduil Orophorion, golden hair shining like a crown in the faint starlight. His hand was white-knuckled on his sword and his face was leeched of all color. He moved like one already gone to Mandos, stiff but soundless. His face showed no feeling, but his eyes were cold and wounded. Now words escaped his lips; no noise issued from the warriors to disturb the silent night. They were hunting and it would not do to give themselves away. They were avengers, rescuers—not prey. There would soon be blood wet on the leaves tonight.

And that blood would be thick, foul, and black.

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_Okay, so it wasn't a particularly_ exciting _chapter, and it's a bloody horrid spot to leave off, but I'm sorry, it just worked out that way. Please don't kill me, I'll try and pop up chapter nine soon, really I will! Sorry! But hey, at least it's here, right? That's what I thought—silver lining and all that… Okay, on to the part you all_ really _like:_

**Reviewer Responses (a.k.a. the crazy portion of our show!):  
**_…yeah, it's a little on the late side, and I had a lot of cookies today…bear with the ensuing…whatever…_

**Tinnuial –** You're welcome! And okay, I'll let him find them soon.  
After all, he's an Elf. "Soon" could be anywhere from tomorrow to sometime next century!

**East Coastie1500 –** I'm glad you're excited! And I'm glad you're glad! Yeah, Mirkwood really got gypped…er, sorry, no, I won't rehash that rant, promise! And thanks; I hope so too! I have to go back on the train; I better have batteries! Ick! Anyway, hopefully you're happy with this one too! And that inspiration for _Sprites _strikes; let me know! I'll read as soon as time (i.e. January) comes around again!

**Alma –** wow. I think that all I can say to that is, _thank you_. Thank you a lot! Wow. Okay, great happiness now! And I totally hear you on the update-thing! Same to you!

**Deana –** hmm, interesting question. It's kinda hard, because he's obviously going to be more "mature" since he's older, but he won't be "grown-up" and will in fact probably be _more _"childish"—look how the Elves acted even when they _were _"grown-up"… And of course, I'm horrible even finding proper ages for _human _kids…okay, let's see let's see…I'm gonna grab a number that's half out of the story and half out of thin air and say…roughly—**roughly!**—he's around…ooh…seven. How's that? Sound right? Anyone?

**Aranna –** no, I'll bet they did not like that sight _at all_. Heh heh heh. And thank you, I know now! Wow, I feel so loved! Hugs to all of you! And no, I would not want to hurt Thranduil so I will update. Well, actually, I _would_, that's sort of the point…but you know what I mean!

**Nikki1 –** Okay, sure…he won't be captured again…what_ever _you want…heh heh heh heh heh…_uncrosses fingers and wanders off snickering evilly to herself…_  
Didn't I say I had thirty chapters outlined? How am I supposed to fill up that much space without a little bit of…oh…"drama," shall we say? Nyah-ha-ha…

**Laiquendi –** yeah, I love Thranduil too. In fact, I love him so much, I'm letting him steal about half the friggin' story from me! Siiiiiiigh…but I can't really begrudge him that. I mean, it's not like he's an over-exposed character; I guess I can let him hijack my story…it's not my fault! He's just such an awesome Elf!

**megan –** okay! Just since you asked so nice! ;)

_Sorry guys, I don't have the time to get a new part of_ Exploring Darkness _out tonight. I'll see what I can do, but I'm really low on time this month. If the world stops spinning, or Gimli and Legolas stop teasing each other, or people locate their brains and eliminate their testosterone-inspired misunderstandings, or my cats start behaving normally, or something of that utterly impossible nature happens, I_ might _be able to get a chapter out this week, but don't count on it. Again, to all of you reading both fics, sorry! But I'm totally writing that one as I go now, and the last chapter just isn't ready to see the light of the internet yet! I have hope it will be soon, but for now, you'll have to make do with some_Shadows _but not complete_Darkness_. (Wow, bad pun; my brother must be rubbing off on me. At least, that's what I'll claim, and you can't make me say different!) Apologies, and happy holidays all!_

_Okay, who here saw the RoTK EE? Wasn't the drinking scene **awesome?!!? **I'll say no more, as I don't want to spoil it for those who haven't, but stars and garters, I almost died!_

And that's all from me! Enjoy your winter break, and I really hope I see some snow before I go back to Savannah. What was that spell of Saruman's again? _Cuiva nwalca Carnirassë…_


	9. Pursuit

_Hello all! Yes, I am _finally_ back! Everyone start your ewok dance of joy! I'll pop up a new chapter of_ Exploring Darkness _today as well, but I may need to go off and swallow some lunch first—depends how long it takes me to get this up. I want to be there before the cafeteria closes all their lines but wilting-salad-bar and droopy-pizza. ;) But the important thing is, I am_ finally back!!!_ It may take a while to return to my previous schedule, I have to get into the swing of my new classes, and I'm also helping out with the Flame of Arnor Awards over at lotrfanfictionDOTcom—reading the nominations for two of the categories and picking the top three to be voted on—so I need to make those two things my top priorities right now. But don't worry, updates will appear far faster than they did while I was home—you can count on that!_

_

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_

Chapter Nine: Pursuit

"Fuiniel!" a faint whisper laced with tension wove through the dark canopy of trees.

The dark haired elfling stopped abruptly, crouching low on the thin branches beneath her soft booted feet. "Legolas?" she breathed back, her own voice no louder than the rustle of leaves.

"Listen!" the younger elfling hissed.

After only a moment, Fuiniel's pale face flickered, a shadow drawing across her brow briefly. "_Yrch_," she spat under her breath. Gray eyes locked with blue ones in the darkness of the starlit night. "They have picked up our scent," she said quietly.

A brief hint of fear gleamed in Legolas's eyes, but it was quickly smothered by grim determination—and a trust that frightened Fuiniel. He should not trust in her, and yet he did. Yet there was no time to waste on that now. Now, they had to run.

"We must go faster," she whispered, hoping that his wounds would not protest at the strain. He nodded calmly, no hint of apprehension in his level gaze. "They have not yet found our trail, but if we linger their noses will do the work for them." She hesitated a moment. She had grown used to having no one to rely on but herself, yet Legolas had heard the _yrch_ first. Perhaps his ears were sharper than hers, something she could use… "Can you pinpoint the direction from which they come?" she asked quietly.

Legolas paused and tilted his head to one side, listening closely. Fuiniel sat perfectly still, not even her breathing audible in the quiet night as she waited. "That way," Legolas replied at last, pointing into the darkness.

Fuiniel nodded, deciding to trust the elfling. She could not tell exactly where the _yrch_ were, only that they were somewhere to the southeast, until they got closer—something that she did not intend to allow them to do. "We should change direction. If we head west, we may move beyond their range. We can skirt the very borders of Greenwood, and circle around to the palace from the north."

Legolas nodded in silent agreement, and the two children quickly set out. Their footsteps were silent on the thin branches, their movement making no more noise than the softly rustling leaves through which they fled. The half-moon overhead bathed the forest in a pale, silvery light that shone brightly to Elf-eyes.

But the darkness was there, slowly creeping closer on foul black feet…

………………

Urglug cursed the elfling brat-prince under his breath as he ran. The Master was upset at him now. He knew that the only reason he wasn't dead or slowly dying under the Master's tools was because he was out here, looking for the elf-brat. If he came back without it, he would be lucky if the Master was so enraged he killed him right away. If not…Urglug shuddered, remembering how long it had taken Sharnu to die. He had enjoyed the spectacle at the time, but now, picturing himself in Sharnu's place, he found that it seemed a lot less enjoyable.

_Pushdug_ elf-brat…_pushdug _Klughig…it was all his fault the elf-brat-prince escaped in the first place, but would that stop the Master from blaming Urglug? If Klughig had just kept a hold of the bratlling, instead of whining and complaining like an elf-maiden, they would have been fine. The elf-brat would have been taken to the Master and Urglug would have been honored for capturing the offspring of _gold-head-slaughter-son_ Thranduil, instead of…_this_.

Urglug cursed again, louder this time. He had everything within his reach, and then idiot Klughig had to go spoiling it all. He almost regretted beheading the fool; he would have liked to make him suffer, like Urglug might soon be suffering. But he supposed that there really hadn't been time to properly make Klughig regret his stupidity, and besides, at that point he hadn't yet noticed that the elf-brat had escaped.

Suddenly Urglug's head snapped up, and he sniffed at the air. Foul, yellowed, broken teeth curled into a feral grin in black flesh as he caught the scent. _Elf. _"Come on, boys," he bellowed to the troops behind him. "I smell _ilid!_" he shouted. _Elf!_

With a wild yell, the _yrch _picked up their pace, racing after the tantalizing smell of Elf-flesh. With any luck, Urglug thought, the elf-brat would have found a friend or two they could eat. The princeling was off-limits—he was to go to the Master, unharmed—but anyone with him…

Spirits considerably brighter, Urglug sprinted through the thick forest under cover of comfortable darkness. Things were looking up.

………………..

"Legolas," the girl asked quietly without slowing her pace or glancing back to look at him, "know you where we are?"

Legolas paused for half a moment, balanced lightly on the thin branch, and looked around carefully. Running lightly, he quickly caught up with Fuiniel. "Nay," he whispered back. "Why? Where are we?"

Now it was Fuiniel's turn to pause. Her steps faltered and she stopped, turning to stare at him. "What?" she asked, a strange emotion in her voice that Legolas could not quite place. "You do not?"

"No," he replied again, now slightly worried. What was it that she knew about their location that was causing her such distress. "Why? What is wrong?"

Fuiniel bit her lip and glanced about. "I do not know," she answered. "I have never been here before. I rather hoped perhaps you had." She looked at Legolas again, as if hoping that the prince would suddenly remember, but he shook his head. She sighed and fidgeted absently with the strap of an armguard, pulling to tighten the loose gauntlet. Legolas waited patiently, careful to keep his own hands limp and calm; he would be like his ada, and show no sign of anxiety. It was a vital diplomatic skill that the elfling worked hard to develop.

"I suppose that it does not matter," the girl said at last. "As long as we continue heading away from the _yrch_, our specific location is of little import. We will keep to this direction for a few nights, I think, before turning north. Hopefully we will find something that will throw off the trail before then, or they will tire of the chase. They may simply lose us in the trees…" Her voice trailed off and her brow furrowed in concentration over cloudy gray eyes. It seemed to Legolas that she had spoken more to herself than him, her thought somewhere absent. Fuiniel shook her dark head and turned her gaze back to the prince. "Can you continue without rest?" she asked in a tone that he could not put an emotion to. It was perfectly neutral, at least to his ears.

"Yes," he replied with a determined nod. He would not slow them down, and he certainly didn't need to stop and rest. There were _yrch _behind them, and he needed to act like a strong elven warrior now.

Fuiniel nodded sharply, trusting in his words. "Then come, we cannot linger here." She was off as if released from a bow, soft dark boots running lightly over the thick-leafed boughs tinged with the reds and browns of falls even at this level now. Legolas was right on her heels, a small golden shadow of the dark figure he followed through the trees. The elflings made no sound in the woods, dark cloaks fluttering silently like the physical embodiment of Greenwood's winds. Their passage was nothing more than the faint breeze ruffling the leaves and then departing, no sign left to mark their trail.

But the noses of the _yrch _are keen, and to them there is no scent more hated nor more desired than that of Elf-flesh. And their senses are strong in the darkness…

…………………

The elflings hung easily in the frail treetops as they watched the dark night by the faint glow of the moon and stars overhead. Their pointed ears strained hard to catch any sounds of _yrch _pursuit, but all was silent save the faint shift of leaves and quiet rustling of Greenwood's nocturnal life. The two young elves knew that they could not pause long, but they were weary—more from the strain and anxiety they were under than their exertions—and wished to rest a moment before continuing their flight.

A light whisper did not so much break the silence as it did flow through it. "Fuiniel," Legolas asked hesitantly, "why…" The elfling's voice trailed off. Legolas bit his lip and looked away from his companion. He fidgeted nervously with a few strands of long, pale hair, regretting his question, aborted though it had been.

There was an uncomfortable silence and Fuiniel's gray eyes sunk into shadow. After a time she spoke, her words a harsh whisper. "We were going to the Gray Havens, some to leave and some to bid farewell. The _yrch_—" Her almost emotionless voice thickened and caught and she had to pause a moment to breathe. "The _yrch _killed everyone," she said at last.

"Everyone?" asked Legolas tremulously, blue eyes wide and silvery in the moonlight.

"Everyone," Fuiniel replied sharply. "Even me," she added softly, no longer speaking to the prince. Her gaze drifted and her pale face tightened. She was no longer where she sat, high in Greenwood's boughs. There was rain and blood, mixed and pooling on the ground…

The girl started and whipped a long white knife from her scavenged quiver when she felt a gentle touch on her hand. Her eyes cleared and she looked past the gleaming blade to Legolas, sitting frozen only inches from the sharp edge of the weapon. Fuiniel gave a strangled cry and turned away sharply, hands trembling as they wrapped white-knuckled around the long hilt.

"Fuiniel?" Legolas tentatively edged closer to the other elfling and laid a hand on her tense shoulder. For a moment she leaned towards him and almost relaxed. Then the girl roughly shook her dark head and jerked away, her gray eyes once more sharp and shadowed, mirror-like reflecting the moon but not lit from within.

"We should continue," she said in a distant voice, turning away from Legolas's sad eyes as they beseeched for understanding and extended comfort. She moved down the branch and tugged her cloak more tightly about her shoulders. "The _yrch _are still out there. Come."

Legolas rose, wordless, and followed Fuiniel into the darkness. They moved silently through the night, two small shadows fleeing the growing blackness and shadow at their heels.

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Reviewer Responses:

First of all, I want to thank everyone for sticking with the story through the last month with the lack of updates. I really appreciate that you did so—BIG thank you to everyone! Mwah! Love you guys!

**Aranna –** Thank you! It's a wonderful present! And I promise to put no spiking of people in the story, just for you. Great fireworks! Just remember, _outside!_ Happy New Year to you, too. And I'll get the next part out sooner, promise I will! :D

**East Coastie1500 –** I hope you enjoyed Ohio! Hello East-Coastie-family! Sorry you have to wait another chapter to see the outcome of Thranduil's rampage; no elf-king in this one. Don't worry—he'll be back soon…

**Laiquendi –** Sorry, you have to wait just a _bit _longer to see Thranduil dance on the throats of the _yrch_. Sorry, sorry, really I am! Don't fear everyone, his highness hasn't been idle while we've been away! Fuiniel—lots of fun to create. Hope you enjoy what I do with her!

**Katlyn –** if you're here, you're insane. But you're in good company. Well…okay, so there may be people who would debate that assertation, but at least you're in _fun _company.

_Once more, lots of thanks and hugs to everyone! Don't worry, I'll be back soon! _


	10. Anger and Fear

_It's finally here, the moment you've all been waiting for! Yes, boys and girls, grab your flags and make your bets, because Thranduil is one ticked off Elf tonight! Of course, so as not to disappoint there's a..._bit_ of angst and "aw" factor before then, don't worry my little elf-torture-fans! ;)_

_

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Chapter Ten: Anger and Fear

Chill spirits brightened as the elflings looked up at the dark sky. Although there was no visible sign, they could both sense that dawn was swelling in the distance ahead of them. Their steps quickened with relief and sharp eyes began to search for the best spot to rest for the day.

As a faint light slowly brushed the red-brown edged green leaves, the two children settled themselves gratefully with a whispered thanks among the sturdy branches of a large oak.

Legolas winced as the bark scraped at his tender back and rubbed the thin silk of his tunic against still-healing wounds. He gingerly laid on his side, tucking a small hand under his cheek. The growing sunlight caught the fan of pale hair and danced golden in its tresses as the elfling gently stroked the warm wood beneath him.

Fuiniel removed the overlong sword from its scabbard on her back and laid it next to her. She edged herself into the deep hollow between two thick branches and leaned to the side, careful not to crush her quiver. She rested her head against the cool bark of the tree and brushed a few strands of dark hair from her eyes. She tucked the strays back into her loosening plaits. Drawing her cloak about her although it was not yet cold, the girl sank back further into the lee of shadows. Her gray eyes glinted as she closely surveyed the treetops about them. One hand rested lightly on the sword at her side.

They were silent for a long space, and Legolas was just dropping off to sleep when Fuiniel spoke, almost too quietly for him to hear. "I am sorry I was short with you," she whispered from the shadows. "You did not merit such a response."

"Nay," said Legolas, blinking back into wakefulness. "I should not have asked. It was impolite. It is I who should apologize."

Fuiniel smiled humorlessly. "You are very diplomatic for being very young."

"You aren't _that _much older than me," he pointed out quickly.

The girl turned haunted, haunting eyes on him. "Yes I am," she whispered. She did not refer to years.

Legolas was quiet, knowing no words to speak to her. He did not know that his eyes spoke volumes of his sorrow for her loss, his curiosity, and his wish to ease her pain.

"How do you do it?" she asked more to herself than him.

"Do what?" Legolas was confused. He did nothing special. He had failed, and been captured. He had wept when they beat him, giving in to his weakness. She was not afraid. She struck back against the _yrch_. It was she who carried the weapons that had been steeped in black blood. It was she who had saved them both from the _yrch _and led them away from pursuit through the trees. He merely followed, trying as best he could not to slow them down.

Fuiniel was silent, sinking lower into her shrouding cloak. "You are still…_happy_. You speak to the trees with joy in your voice. You smile. You _laugh_." She glanced over at him from the depths of her hood, gray eyes glinting dimly with puzzlement and perhaps a little bit of awe. "How?" she asked again.

Legolas blinked, trying to divine her meaning. "Why would I not?"

"The _yrch_," she said with a chill colder than winter's depths in her voice. "Now that you have seen—have _felt_—the _yrch_, how can you still do so?"

"I…I just do." She sighed and looked away. The prince struggled for a better explanation. "I mean, I always have. Nothing has changed. Just because the _yrch _are evil does not mean that everything else is. They have not changed the forest, they have not changed me."

"They have me," she murmured. "They have me…" Tears shone for a moment but she dashed them from her eyes. She had sworn to never cry again, and she would keep her vow.

Legolas watched the girl, hidden in her cloak and the shadows cast by the tree branches, with concern in his blue eyes. She did not want comfort—she had shown that—but he did not want to see her sad. Legolas was not used to seeing people in torment, and he was even less used to seeing sadness and pain go uncomforted. Knowing that she might well rebuff him again, he crept forward cautiously.

Fuiniel started when she felt a hand on the arm wrapped around her knees. She looked into Legolas's determined, sorrowing face. "I am sorry," the young elfling whispered. "I wish I could fix it," he said wistfully. "I am sorry."

She grasped his hand with her own and summoned a weak smile. It died somewhere before reaching her eyes, but it was a start. "Thank you."

The elflings sat, resting against the strong oak, and watched the sun rise slowly into the pale morning sky. Hours passed, but they neither slept nor spoke. At last, as the warmth of the sun started to filter down to them through the chill autumn air, Legolas broke the silence tentatively.

"Would it help to talk about it?"

Fuiniel looked away and did not answer.

"Ada says that when something hurts, telling someone else often makes it less painful," he pointed out with the confidence of one who has perfect faith in a father's wisdom.

"How would he know?" she asked bitterly before she thought. Then she remembered who Legolas's father was, and gasped. She turned back to him, gray eyes wide. "I'm sorry," she gasped, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. Legolas—please, I'm so sorry…"

The elfling swallowed hard but nodded and grasped her arm reassuringly. "It's all right. Sometimes, when people are upset, they say things before they think that they don't mean."

Fuiniel relaxed, relieved that no harm had been done by her words. "You are very wise for one so young, Legolas."

He shook his head. "Nay, it is ada who is wise. I merely remember what he tells me. He told me that you have to always be calm when you negotiate, because otherwise you could forget and say something you shouldn't. But I think it applies to regular life as well."

"I think so too," she agreed. For a time, neither spoke. "How fares your back?" Fuiniel asked, searching for another topic and grasping at the first thing that came to mind.

"Much better," Legolas replied smiling gratefully at her. "Hannon le."

She pulled her lips into the strange expression. "That is good." They lapsed back into silence, but Fuiniel could not quiet her thoughts. Over and over, she repeated the elfling's words to herself. King Thranduil, of all people, ought to know how to deal with pain and sorrow, after what had happened to his family. Could he be right? Might it help to stop keeping everything inside, to share it with another? But how could she burden the happy prince with her darkness?

How could she let go enough to speak, when she might never be able to get her fragile control back into place once she loosened it?

The sun climbed high in the sky as the girl sat within her shadows. Legolas slipped into sleep, a contented expression on his fair face, but Fuiniel could not join him. Her thoughts writhed like stormclouds in her gray eyes. She gnawed on her lip in concentration and lightly stroked the smooth handle of the sword at her side. Noon came and went before she spoke, hesitantly, not really meaning to talk to her companion—just thinking that perhaps to say the words out loud would help. She could not risk pulling Legolas into her darkness, but he was right: the trees had not changed. They were still there, and they offered comfort to the small Elf that they could sense in pain within their branches.

"I have been—frightened, since I met you," she said quietly. Legolas stirred, his sleep light enough that her whisper woke him. She did not notice, and continued speaking, eyes distant. "I had thought that I had nothing to fear from the _yrch_, for all that they could do to me would be send me to join my family again. I would go now, but I cannot leave the foul creatures here to darken the woods as they have darkened me. I would have vengeance on them for the deaths they have caused. To me the _yrch _offered no fear, only anger and hate. But now…" she sighed, and drew her arm tighter about her thin knees. When she spoke, her soft words had faded to less than a whisper and Legolas had to listen closely to make them out.

"Now," she breathed, "I begin to fear them again. I wonder if there are perhaps worse things than dying that one could do at their hands. I see what they have done to you, and wonder what more they would have, given a chance.

"I wonder what they would do to _me_.

"And I am ashamed, for I did not think myself a coward. I have lost everything, how can I fear to lose more? I have so much pain within me, how can there be room for more? I should not be afraid; I should not have room for fear. I thought that within me there was only darkness and wrath, but now I find something else. Now I find I am afraid. And…I do not know what to do." She swallowed, her hand tightening around the hilt of the sword. "Now I think of the _yrch_, and I fear them."

She started when she heard Legolas stir next to her. He had watched silently, but when her voice faded he reached out and hugged her. "I think you are very brave," he said sincerely. "If you were really a coward, you would have run away without me."

She looked at him askance, but he continued speaking before she could do so. "The _yrch _are not chasing you, they are chasing me. I am the one who escaped; they do not even know of you. If you left me," his voice caught in a slight tremble, but he forged ahead determinedly. "You would be safe again. They would not come after you. But you did not." He turned large eyes towards her. "Being afraid does not make you a coward; giving in to your fear does."

Fuiniel stared at her knees, not willing to look up at the elfling next to her. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. "More words of wisdom from your ada?" she asked softly, wondering what her adar would say to her right now.

"Yes," he replied simply. "He says that warriors are often afraid, but they do not let their fear control them. As long as you do not give into it, fear does not make you a coward."

"And yet, I am still afraid."

Legolas laid a head on her shoulder and half-closed his eyes. "Don't worry," he said confidently. "You don't have to be. Everything will be all right now. Soon my ada will find us, and his warriors will kill the _yrch_, and you can come back and live with ada and me and we will make you happy again. I promise."

By the time Fuiniel could think of something to say, Legolas was asleep. She sighed and looked at the small blond head with sad eyes. "I wish it were that easy," the girl whispered softly. The trees rustled around them, offering what comfort they could. Fuiniel leaned back against the oak, but shook her head.

"I wish it were that easy."

………….

Swords flashed silver and black in the fading light of dusk. Normally the Elves would never have attack the band of _yrch _this close to nightfall, preferring instead to trail them silently through the woods and come down upon their camp with the dawn's light. But Thranduil was not about to waste any time. His Greenleaf was still out there somewhere, and he would not be stayed.

The _yrch _had been sleeping within a small, sheltering cave away from the harsh eye of the sun. The sudden attack of the Elves had caught them off-guard, and the creatures had been dismayed at the fearsome wrath of their assailants. Such anger had not been seen since the days directly following the Last Alliance, and the _yrch _were frightened by it. One Elf in particular seemed to conjure up the slaughter of the War. A vision of barely-contained rage, the golden-haired Elf Lord struck violent and reckless against his foe. The _yrch _quailed before his palpable anger, and whispered among themselves that it was Thranduil himself.

Greenwood's king had become a figure inspiring fear to the _yrch _hordes—fear and anger. _Gold-head-slaughter-son_ they called him in their tongue, for Oropher had earned the _yrch's _enmity before they finally cut him down, and his son had been no better. Striking out in rage felt at both ally and enemy for his father's fall, the freshly orphaned new king had been a terrifying vision of death in black, red, and gold on the killing fields. Their hatred had not abated over the years, for orkish memory of grudges is deep and the king continued to harry the _yrch _from his forest kingdom.

But he had not been seen like this since Sauron's fall. Met with the full fury of an Elven Lord, the _yrch _fell back, only to find themselves caught by the other Elves with almost as much anger as the king in their fair, grim faces. But not quite. Thranduil's eyes literally glowed with rage. Black blood coated his thin form and long golden hair swung loose like gleaming whips echoing the silver flash of his sword. His face was set, but there was a brittleness to his control and the fierceness of his eyes was almost wild. He walked on a thin edge of restraint that barely kept him in check, and even the _yrch _could see that it was ready to break at any moment.

But Thranduil had been fighting _yrch _for years beyond measure. He was not old, as Elves go, but he had seen many mortal lifetimes pass without notice—and he had fought the _yrch_, it seemed, for his entire life. Greenwood was not kept safe by some unseen power, but by the will and strength of her defenders, and Thranduil had been one of them for hundreds of years. He did not need to think to fight the _yrch_; he did not need to be calm to utilize instincts formed over eons.

Singling out the largest _orch _still standing, Thranduil fought his way over to it, easily cutting down the black creatures that stood in his way without truly taking note of them. The largest _orch_ was often the leader of the band, and while this group's leader had likely been felled in the first seconds of the engagement size often related to rank among the _yrch_. Disarming the _orch _without thinking about it, Thranduil easily turned aside the blows from its companions. Two of his warriors moved gracefully to flank him, swords flashing black and wet in the dusk.

Thranduil did not bother to press his sword to the _orch's _throat. Grabbing its rough jerkin, Thranduil speared it with his gaze. The _orch_, _fëa_-less eyes wide with fear, trembled in his grasp.

"Where is my son?" he hissed, his words sharper than the finest steel. When the creature did not answer him right away, he shook it roughly, black-dripping blade whipping in to rest lightly alongside its jugular. _"Where is my child?"_

_

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**Reviewer Responses:**

_Well, I hope everyone enjoyed their first taste of Thranduil's vengeance. I know we've all been waiting quite a bit for that, and hopefully it didn't disappoint. Yes, you're right, I _did _have a lot of fun writing that bit. Heh heh. _

**Alma – **Don'tworry about it; I eagerly—but patiently—await whenever it appears. And thanks, I'm glad you're liking them! It's an interesting balance keeping the action intense while still taking the time for characterization, and I'm glad you like it so far. Thank you! If I can survive Drawing II, I'll be fine!

**Aranna –** Danger? _Danger? _Nah…why would they be in danger? Oh. Well, if your crystal ball reports it, I suppose I'll have to give in and provide some—but I blame you entirely. And just so you know, I am never threatening anyone's nose again, certainly not my little elfling. Wow. You, um, you enjoy that weird mood, yah? But tell your mum, there is absolutely nothing wrong with happy dances! I love happy dances! Happy dances for all! Aww…don't act normal, that's no fun! Please? Be weird for me? Lol

**Deana –** hey, you know I posted that just for you, D, 'cause you asked!

**menoknow –** I'm glad you like it! And no, no romance, nu-uh no way not here. Dude they're, like, what, not even ten years old! Give the kids a break. ;) Sheesh. Besides, I'm not exactly the…uh…"romantic" type, shall we say… Heh heh…how do you like Thranduil _now_?

**steph305 –** thanks, and okay! Welcome to the story. And welcome to menoknow, as well. Glad you two're enjoying it!

_Hopefully this update's timing was better than previously; I was thinking about holding off a bit more, but Thranduil turned one of his patented GLARES on me and…well, have _you _ever tried to stand up to one of those? Yow! I swear, _Melkor_ ran for cover! …not that there's a Dark Lord hanging around and whispering in my ear trying to convince me to do evil things or anything like that… _

I'll be back in a few days! Until then, enjoy your thoughts of bloody revenge. Mmmm…fuuun…


	11. Despair

Promised the updates would be sooner…didn't I? And after the way I left off last chapter—well, I thought you might be eager to see what happened next.

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Chapter Eleven: Despair

The king gasped slightly and stepped back, dropping the _orch_. The creature stared a moment at the Elven king who stood frozen as if a blade had pierced his heart. Then it scrambled halfway to its feet and lurched away, seeking the safety of the forest and the night. Tiraran and Eregmegil, standing near their lord, quickly pounced on the _orch_. They struggled to subdue it a moment but eventually it was restrained, cursing and snarling on the ground.

Tiraran looked up anxiously at his king. He was not sure if Thranduil wanted this _orch _kept alive for further questioning. The remainder of the foul horde had been slaughtered by now; their captive was all that was left.

But the warrior had a far more important question as soon as he saw his lord. Thranduil's face was blank and white and his eyes sightless and wide. He still held his sword tightly, but he seemed to be no more aware of the weapon in his hands than he was of the green trees and black corpses scattered around them. The king swayed slightly and Tiraran glanced quickly at Eregmegil. The warrior nodded, indicating that he was more than capable of holding the foul _orch _on his own, and pressed his black-spattered blade to its neck as he pushed the creature's head further into the muddy grass. Tiraran rose swiftly to his feet and to his king's side.

"My lord," he said softly, but there was no recognition in Thranduil's eyes that someone was speaking to him. The Elven _gon _laid a hand on the other's arm and felt it trembling slightly. "My lord," he said again, "come." He gently drew Thranduil forward; the king did not resist him but did not acknowledge him either.

His once gleaming blue eyes were dull and shadowed, and Tiraran felt tears spring to his own eyes at the deep sorrow in the proud king's face. "Your people need you, _aran nin_," he whispered, but Thranduil only nodded distantly. Tiraran gently pried his lord's sword from a clenched hand and sheathed the blade for him. Thranduil did not react. The _gon _again grasped his king's arm and pulled him forward. The Elven-king allowed himself to be drawn away from the site of the battle.

Tiraran looked over his shoulder at his warriors, and, indicating the captive _orch_, shook his head. The creature had no time to flinch before Eregmegil drew his blade swiftly through its neck and rose, wiping the black blood roughly from his sword. The Elves moved out silently, leaving the carnage behind.

The only casualties had been _yrch_, and the only wounds the Elves had acquired were a few scratches and bruises, more from stepping too recklessly and close to the coarse orkish armor than from the crude blades that had been raised against them. And yet their steps were slow and heavy and their eyes grieved. They seemed more like a defeated army retreating from a rout than the victorious slayers of a band of _yrch_.

But that was because they had failed. The little prince had not been recovered; on the contrary, it seemed he was beyond their reach. Tiraran murmured a soft prayer that the child had felt no pain on his journey to Mandos's Halls, but he feared that it was far too little; far, far too late. He swallowed hard and fought back tears, knowing that he had to be strong right now for his king. He could not dwell on Legolas's loss.

Not unless he wanted to lose Thranduil as well.

The king was practically sleep-walking when they approached where Ladinion waited with the horses. The Elf leapt to his feet, eyes wide and questioning, but spoke no word when he saw the look on his _gon_'s face. He helped Tiraran get Thranduil mounted, shooting silent questions at the elder warrior the whole time. Tiraran shook his head, heart too full to tell the story. He knew it was his duty, as their commander, but he could not bring himself to do so.

Let one of the other warriors relay to Ladinion what had happened—what they had learned. He could not bring himself to do it. He knew that Ladinion would take the loss hard. The young Elf had been enamored of the little prince and had spent a great deal of time instructing the eager pupil in the finer points of archery, for which Legolas possessed an affinity to match the young warrior's. But now…

Tiraran shook his head, shutting off thoughts of the past. He could not afford to dwell on his own sorrow. His king needed him.

He had been there when Oropher fell in the Gladden Fields, and he had stood by his then-prince in both rage and sorrow. He had been there for his lord then, as he had been through the years of ruling Greenwood. He knew the king's heart better than most and would give his life in an instant to protect his beloved liege. And yet he could do nothing to ease this loss. There was no war to be fought now, no wrath with which to stave off sadness until the pain had lessened. There was duty to his people, yes; but would that be enough for the king to throw himself into? Could anything consume him enough to distract from his son's death?

Tiraran rode slowly ahead of the king, for Thranduil stared blankly ahead without moving. He would not fall from the horse, but he was not aware of the pale steed beneath him. Tiraran patted the horse's neck and whispered, "follow." Lhagrloth, he knew, would trail him obediently without her rider's guidance. They set out slowly, and if any of the other Elves noticed that the king did not ride at their head they made no mention of it.

Tiraran glanced back at his king, and felt sorrow threaten to overwhelm him once more. Only once before had he seen such a look in his lord's eyes, and that had been a fleeting moment of helplessness as Oropher died, and had vanished in commanding wrath within seconds. Thranduil had been lost for only a moment on the battlefield before he grimly took command of the fight and his people, leading them fearlessly against the darkness.

But now Tiraran wondered if his king could ever be found again.

……………….

Legolas had been antsy all night, waking before the afternoon had truly faded into evening. He had done his best to be patient, but every small noise made him jump and he had eventually started pacing rapidly up and down the tree branches, peering out anxiously into the forest. He learned exactly how little Fuiniel ever truly relaxed when he paced a little too close to her perch a few limbs away.

The girl had sprang to her feet, fully awake, and had a white knife pressed to his throat before he had had time to gasp. Legolas had quickly twisted nimbly from her tight grasp, then froze, eyes wide with contrition. She had yelled at him—in a quiet whisper, for safety's sake—but she seemed more frightened than angry. Legolas had apologized profusely both for waking her and for startling her as she grumpily replaced the long knife in her quiver. Then she had glared at him.

"Why do you wake so early?" she snapped. "Did we not travel far and fast enough for you last night? For should you wish, I shall gladly press us harder in order to insure tiredness."

"I am sorry," Legolas said quickly, head hanging in shame. "I did not mean to wake you! Please do not be upset." He risked a glance, but she had turned her face away and he could not see her mood beyond the stiff set of her shoulders. "I promise not to disturb you if you go back to sleep," he offered meekly.

With a sigh, Fuiniel sat down again. "It is all right," she assured him grudgingly. "I was startled, and frightened at what I nearly did."

Legolas smiled only a little tremulously at her. "Don't worry," he replied easily, "nothing happened."

Fuiniel sighed and shook her head, and the little prince was reminded of some of the elder Elves in the palace when he said something they thought was childish. He frowned; she was only a little older than he, why did she think he was being childish?

Then Legolas sobered, remembering the snatches she had spoken of her past. He supposed that while they might be close in age, she was older than her years would imply. Fuiniel settled herself back on her branch to return to slumber. Legolas sat down, determined not to interrupt this time, and tried to will himself to be still.

But he still felt odd, almost as if there were something not quite watching him so much as around him, patiently waiting. Legolas did not feel patient. In fact, he felt rather the opposite, and had to remind himself to be still so as to not disturb Fuiniel's sleep. It was difficult; he felt certain that something was…not _wrong_, but strange. And an unwelcome strange, as well. He wished his ada were here to tell him what to do and to tell him what this was—but there was no one. He was alone. Pushing that thought from his mind when he felt tears threaten to grow in his eyes, the elfling took a few slow, deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself as he had been taught. That worked for only a moment before the prickling on the back of his neck intensified. He fidgeted with a few strands of hair, absently braiding and knotting them, doing his best not to move.

Finally unable to remain still any longer, Legolas ran lightly up the tree branches to the highest boughs, thinking that perhaps the clouds and sun above would be soothing. At the least, he would be far enough away that his anxiety should not wake Fuiniel again.

The elfling nimbly settled himself among the thin twigs and leaves, and turned his small face towards the familiar sky with a smile. Then blue eyes grew wide and he stared for a moment in shock and sudden fear before silently scrambling back down to the lower branches where Fuiniel was resting.

The small prince was almost shaking as he dropped through the autumn-tinged green leaves. Above his pale head, darkness grew.

……………

Fuiniel wandered the paths of Elvish dreams, her eyes glazed and turned away from the trees around her. In her mind, she walked through foggy clouds of gray. Her dreams were chill and comfortless, empty and achingly lonely, but that was better than remembering.

Anything was better than remembering, even nothing. _Especially _nothing.

But then there was something, and trained by fear and anger, she snapped instantly to alertness as a small hand lightly shook her arm. Fuiniel grabbed her sword tightly before her dark eyes had even focused on Legolas's pale face. The elfling looked frightened.

"What is it?" she whispered quieter than dry leaves falling from their dead branches.

"The moon—it will not be coming out tonight!" Legolas hissed back worriedly.

Fuiniel frowned. "Of course it will; in three nights it will be full!" she replied in annoyance and confusion.

The little prince shook his head, blue eyes solemn. "An eclipse," he said quietly, voice pitched just a little too high although no other sign of fear shook his features.

Fuiniel swallowed but did her best to appear nonplussed. "The stars will still grant enough light to see by," she said too firmly. Her hand was wrapped so tightly about her fath—around her sword, that her pale knuckles had turned bone-white. "We will be fine," she said with heavy confidence and grasped Legolas's shoulder to reassure him with the touch—not herself, for she was not afraid, the girl told herself. "Do not fear."

"I shall not," Legolas replied too quickly and too surely, every bit as upset as she was and every bit as determined to hide it.

"It is perfectly natural," Fuiniel continued. "Back ho— in the villages and the palace, they are no doubt getting ready to stay up all night and dance and watch it. _Aran _Thranduil will have called a festiv—" Her voice caught and fell silent as Legolas turned his face away and bit his lip. Fuiniel cursed herself silently; she had forgotten that the elfling with her was the _aran's _son. She had not meant to mention his father; doubtless Legolas was already homesick and lonesome. She had only made it worse. Fuiniel knew what it was to miss a father; how could she be so thoughtless?

"It will probably be a very nice festival," Legolas said in a small voice, face still hidden behind a pale curtain of golden hair.

"Everyone will be enjoying it," she forced herself to agree. Fuiniel caught his hand and pulled until he sat down beside her. A chill passed through her as she realized how true her statement was. Everyone will be enjoying the eclipse—_even the yrch_. Complete darkness in the midst of night? They would be literally howling with blood.

Fear made Fuiniel shiver. "Come along," she said with as much false cheer as she could muster, "since we are awake, we may as well make use of the time. Let us start moving."

"I am sorry I woke you again," Legolas said contritely. "I know I promised not to, but I forgot—"

"Think no more of it. It was time that I woke anyway, and that was news worth doing so to hear. Come now, let us be off. We will have a long—dark—night ahead of us."

Legolas nodded silently and the two elflings proceeded slowly through the autumn-drying trees. Both children were determined to be brave for their companion, but while they knew that the eclipse was perfectly natural it somehow seemed an omen. As the darkness moved a shadow across the glowing orb rising in the sky, a similar one dropped across the hope that flickered tenuously in their hearts. They refused to despair—but it was difficult tonight, as the light faded from their sight. The elflings flitted like frail wraiths through the branches, hands clasped tightly as dusk fell.

Behind them, the first leaves of fall followed, spiraling slowly to the ground where, some time later, they would be crushed and trampled beneath the coarse, heavy feet of _yrch_.

gon — commander  
aran — king

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**Reviewer Responses:**

**Deana –** okay! How's this? By the way, _Race _is great. And we're almost done? Does that mean we finally get a _cured _Elf?_ Hmmmmm? _(Yes, this _is _a hint! lol)

**Alma –** I have nothing to say to that save for thank you, from the deepest part of my heart! That, and I promise to do my very best to fulfill your wish. _bows_.

**Laiquendi –** thank you very much! Hmm, maybe not crack yet, but there's definitely a hairline fissure… but tell me, is the score _still _Thranduil – 1, orcs – 0? I know, I love him too. Which is bad news for him, I suppose, considering what I _do _to the characters I love, but…oh well!

_I'm sorry guys, I'm really tired right now for whatever reason so I can't think up anything to say here. I'll just go to bed now and hope you enjoyed the chapter. I'll be back soon. _Yawn!


	12. They're Here They've Come

And things are finally taking off! Yes, yes, I know, if things are just now taking off what have I been doing for the past eleven chapters? Setting the scene my lovies, setting the scene…

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Chapter Twelve: They're Here…They've Come…

Legolas suddenly stopped, rigid on the soft ground. Fuiniel continued darting forward a moment until she noticed that he was no longer with her. She ran back the few paces to him and hissed, "hurry! We cannot stop, they will soon be upon us!"

When Legolas turned his small face towards her, Fuiniel's heart seemed to have somehow lodged itself in the back of her throat, making it impossible to swallow. His blue eyes, usually twinkling even after the most grueling run or fearful race, were suddenly and terrifyingly bleak.

"They already are," he whispered hoarsely.

……………

When the night had started, they had not been in such danger. Indeed, despite their fears of a bad omen a few days ago, the extra darkness of the eclipse seemed to have shrouded them from their pursuers, for they had not heard a hint of _yrch _since then. Hope renewed in their faltering hearts, the two elflings had run with light feet through the trees when they saw the small stream.

"Here," Fuiniel had told her companion with what passed for her as a smile, "is where we shall turn and begin to cut back towards the palace. I believe that we have gone more than far enough to prevent the _yrch _from chasing us, for they now risk discovery."

Legolas had been beaming with joy, and he grabbed her hand and pulled her forward eagerly. "Oh Fuiniel," he had cried, "we are almost home!"

The girl's face had dimmed and she coldly detached her hand from the young prince's. "Yes," she said flatly, "home."

There had been silence for a long moment as shadows swirled in her dark eyes.

"Fuiniel, I am sorry," Legolas had stammered. "I did not mean to—"

"Of course not," she had said shortly, and was sorry. She had not meant to be cross with him, she had just needed to be upset with someone. Otherwise she would have risked crying, and she knew that that was something she could no longer do. "Do not worry," Fuiniel had continued in a softer tone, taking his hand again, "I know what you meant."

"Then you will live with ada and I?" he had asked eagerly, good spirits restored. "I am sure that ada will be pleased, and I would be very pleased, if you would," he added politely.

"We…will see what _Aran _Thranduil has to say about that," she hedged.

"Do not worry," Legolas had reassured her confidently, "I am certain that ada will be happy."

Fuiniel had her doubts—both about how the king would react to the news of a permanent, orphaned house-guest, and about whether or not she was truly ready to face her people again. About whether or not she was yet ready to give up her vengeance against the _yrch_—for she was certain that _Aran _Thranduil would not allow an elfling free rein to hunt _yrch_ while she lived in his home.

But was not hunting down the _yrch _all she had left? What else was there to justify her life?

……………

But Legolas's high spirits were contagious, and soon the two elflings had been chatting away merrily about all their plans once they finally arrived at the palace.

"We will lay in bed all day and not even change out of our bedclothes."

"We can stay up from dawn to sunrise, and not see the nighttime for a month."

"We shall corner Tiraran and make him tell us stories all day and act out all the parts."

As they went on, the ideas became more and more outlandish and impossible—and more certain to be vetoed by Thranduil—and they became less and less watchful of the forest around them.

"We will stand on top of the parapet and be statues, and throw candy to anyone who salutes us—"

"And nuts to anyone who does not!"

"We will never have to eat nuts again. "

"We shall have a feast entirely of spun-sugar and sticky-wafers!"

Excitement after so long under stressful fear quite ran away with the children, and they forgot that they had not yet reached safety.

They were abruptly reminded when the stumbled into the _orch_.

Actually, they did not stumble, and certainly not into anything. They simply turned the corner at a bend in the small stream they were following—now on the ground rather than in the air, for after climbing down to get a drink they saw no reason to climb back up, not now when they felt so safe. The moon was just beginning to wane and the stars were bright, both overhead and reflected in the water by their feet, and the colorful leaves made as nice a carpet underfoot as they did a canopy overhead.

Then they saw the _orch_.

Actually, it was three _yrch_, and the foul creatures were at least as surprised as the elflings were at the encounter, if not more so. For a long moment _yrch _and Elves stared at one another, jaws gaping in mirrored expressions of shock. Then as if at some unseen signal, everything shattered and started moving again.

Fuiniel tugged Legolas's hand and shouted, and the two disappeared into the trees. At the same moment the _yrch _yelled even louder, and two of them bolted after the elflings while the third, yelling at the top of its lungs, raced off no doubt to summon the rest of their foul horde.

The children ran as fast as they could, but the two _yrch _were only a few paces behind them; too far to suddenly turn and catch them off-guard enough to stab them, yet too close to either string and shoot a bow or to scramble up a tree and disappear into the leaves. While they cannot run through the branches as an Elf can, _yrch _can climb speedily and well. They would have been on top of the children before they could flee—and so all the two small elflings could do was run, hands intertwined in the darkness out of fear both of being separated and of the foul pursuit on their heels.

After a time, the fleet-footed Elves drew away from their pursuers. Fear sped their steps and the _yrch _were not nearly so graceful in running over tree-roots and fallen branches as were the Elves. But Fuiniel and Legolas did not turn to see. Terror has clenched their minds and came close behind them. Even as their sharp senses told them that they were drawing away, they could not bring themselves to pause and take to the trees or to hiding. Fear was now their master, and even as that abated slightly with distance from the _yrch _they could not break free entirely of its hold.

So they ran. And ran and ran and ran, while about them the night grew steadily darker and their footsteps led them further and further away from safety.

……………

"What do you mean, they are upon us?" Fuiniel gasped, wide-eyed.

"Can you not hear them?" Legolas whispered, voice quavering ever so slightly.

"Verily?" asked the girl, hand tightening on her sword.

Legolas nodded, chewing on his lip.

"Very well," said Fuiniel, voice suddenly calm and face cold. "Then we shall have to fight our way out. Here," she reached to her back and pulled the large bow from its clasp on her quiver. "How is your aim? Shall you shoot, or shall I?"

Legolas looked at the large bow and larger sword with dismay, then his own face calmed. "I think that I should do better with the bow than the sword; I have not spent near so much time learning blades as I have archery. It is…enjoyable…" he finished in a fading whisper; enjoyment seemed such a small thing now, with death only a few steps away from them.

Fuiniel nodded calmly and handed him the bow, then pulled a handful of arrows from her quiver. "Here. Use them well."

Legolas nodded solemnly, blue eyes large but resolute. "I will."

……………

When the _yrch _saw the small elfling holding bent a bow over half as tall as he was, determination on his small face, they were not afraid; they were amused. Their coarse laughter echoed harshly through the trees.

Legolas loosed his first arrow, and one _orch_'s laughter turned to gurgling as it embedded itself securely in its throat. The child's next shot was less perfect, catching the _orch _he was aiming at in the shoulder instead. But by that time, death had dropped on the _yrch _from above as well.

Living up to her name, the Daughter of Darkness fell from the shadows upon the foul creatures, her sword flashing silver in the pale moonlight—for a moment. Soon, thick, black blood coated the blade and smothered the gleam. The _yrch_ had charged right past her towards Legolas, but they had stopped when their first companion fell dead—exactly where the two children had planned for them to halt.

Legolas had fired all but two of his small handful of arrows that had been stuck in the side of a dead trunk beside him when Fuiniel, black blood dripping down her small form, detached herself from the fray that had resulted from her surprise attack. She grabbed the other elfling and dragged him away—he had just enough time to snatch his two remaining arrows—and they disappeared into the trees. With any luck, it would be some minutes before the _yrch_ realized that the elfling had slipped free of their fight.

Of course, if they had any luck, they would be running for home right now—not away from it.

……………

With sunlight came—for a moment—hope, although neither elfling though to ceasing or even slowing their race. They ran heedless of direction until the sun was high in the sky when at last they collapsed, trembling with fright and exertion, in a small clearing. The sunlight was bright here, for the trees were thin, and they felt safe in its warm golden beams.

"Fuiniel?" Legolas said in a very small voice after a moment. "I am sorry."

The other elfling sat up, staring at the small prince in shock. "What?" she asked sharply in her surprise, and he flinched at her harsh tone.

"I—I am sorry that I distracted you. I forgot that we were not home yet and now I have the _yrch _chasing us and it is all my fault and I am sorry—"

"Peace!" she interrupted quickly. "Legolas, it was not your fault," she shook her head. "I ought to have known better. If there is blame to be assigned it ought to go to me."

"Yet I am the one who distracted you, and if it were not for me you would never have forgotten and we would not be in danger now and—"

"Legolas, I said it was not!" Fuiniel took a deep breath to calm her still racing nerves. "Do not blame yourself, for you are not at fault. Blame me, rather, for was it not by my decision that we took that path? I am the one used to the _yrch_ and the one whose obligation it was to be cautious of them. I am the one to blame, and I am sorry for that." Her face fell as she realized the truth of her hastily spoken words, and she hung her dark head. "I am sorry. It is my fault; almost were you home, but my laxity has now placed you in greater jeopardy than before."

Legolas now sat up as well and frowned at her. "No it is not," he objected. "If it were not for you, I would already be dead." There was silence for a moment as Fuiniel fumed at herself for her lapse. "Since you say it is not my fault, and I say it is not yours, then perhaps we are both right," the younger elfling said at last. "Perhaps there is no one to blame, and it was simply ill fortune."

Fuiniel looked up at him and blinked, thinking over what he said. Could it be true, that they had simply fallen into the _yrch_ through evil chance? She shook her head, not certain that she agreed with that; if she had not relaxed her vigilance, they would have passed carefully and quietly through the trees over the heads of the _yrch _with no harm or danger. Aloud, she said, "it may be you are right. If that is the case, let us hope that no further ill favor dogs our footsteps." Silently, she decided that it was indeed her fault, but that she would not let it occur again. She would be on her guard and she would not make another mistake like that.

But Legolas smiled brightly, happy to have reassured her. "I am glad; I do not want you to feel bad," he said simply.

Fuiniel almost laughed. No matter how well-intentioned, no one could stop that. She no longer knew any other way to feel.

Yet sitting here peacefully in this small clearing with sunlight overhead and autumn leaves on the ground, almost she did feel at ease. After their close fright, it felt…_good _to just sit here and, for the first time in more than two months for Legolas, and far longer than that for Fuiniel, simply enjoy their surroundings. Fuiniel laid back in the soft grass, her head pillowed by autumn leaves and heather. She heard Legolas humming softly, but did not open her eyes, letting the warm sun play upon her face. For a moment, she was completely relaxed.

Then Fuiniel leapt to her feet. The small bird that had apparently befriended Legolas took flight from his fingers as he stared at Fuiniel in startlement. "Hurry!" she gasped, grabbing her sword from where she had left it in the leaves, "we have to go!"

"What?" Legolas asked in confusion, "why?" But even as he questioned, he obeyed, picking up the bow and two loose arrows once more. Fuiniel signaled, so tense she was quivering, and he hurried after her as she sprinted from the clearing. "What is wrong?" he asked, worry shaking his voice slightly.

"_Yrch!" _she exclaimed. "The _yrch _are moving!"

Legolas nearly stopped in shock as he stared at her, openmouthed. He shook his paralysis off in a moment and hurried after her. "_Yrch?_" he repeated dumbly. "But…it is daylight!"

"I know!" Fuiniel replied, frustrated. "I do not understand it! Yet I am certain of it! I felt their feet shaking the earth as I lay!"

Legolas opened and closed his mouth a few times but could not speak. If the _yrch _were willing to move in daylight to find them they were in far worse trouble than either elfling had imagined.

The children sprinted pell-mell through the trees and leaves, small feet leaving little imprint in the soft ground which soon faded as the leaves sprang back. Fear once more coursing through their limbs, eyes wide and wild, they ran as if their lives depended on it—which, they were both all too aware, they most likely did. Terror driving their steps, they ran desperately long past dusk. They did not notice that the trees around them were steadily thinning until the broke through the copse at the edge of the woods and found themselves no longer under Greenwood's protective boughs.

The elflings gasped and froze. They shrank together, staring at the naked sky in fear. Neither one had ever left Greenwood—'ere now—and they felt open and exposed. They drew back towards the trees then jumped at the rustling sounds of _yrch _moving in the distance. With no time to think, they turned in horror and darted blindly across the grass, more frightened of the _yrch _than of the open sky. On the empty plains, they had nowhere to flee to, no safety to retreat towards—but by the time they realized their mistake, it was too late to go back, for their pursuers were there.

The stars above shone brightly, casting a shallow silver glow over everything as the night slowly deepened towards darkness. That light shrank back in revulsion—and perhaps a little horror—from the foul black mass that exited the trees next. A living shadow moved across the plain, trailing darkness and evil in its wake. The grass shifted back into place as they passed, but a hint of the shadow remained long after all other sign of their presence had faded.

Evil had walked that land, and the land would not soon forget.

* * *

**Reviewer Responses: **

**Alma —**thank you! Yeah, my one attempt at symbolism, like, ever…lol. Glad it worked! And I'm glad you're attached and happy with the pacing. Your opinion means a lot, because I love the way you handle your characters so much. Thanks!

**Aranna —** Well, if you want me to slow down and update more rarely I'll be glad to do so if it will make life easier for you. Yes? Thanks for not being normal for me! I appreciate it, and I'm sorry you're tired. Try some chai tea, it's yummy! Danger to the elflings? Hmmm, spider-sense tingling…

**EastCoastie1500 —** yay, glad you're back and Ohio was fun! No, we don't want Thranduil to turn inside out…and then explode…er, sorry, _Galaxy Quest_ there… Don't worry, I'm sure Thranduil's quest (speaking of mission, quest, things) hasn't been quenched yet. Thank you for enjoying it, and for the pretty reviews! And I'm glad you can't guess the ending seeing as how that would mean a waste of, like, twenty-some chapters…lol. Consider me **rejuvenated!!!!**

_Anyway, I'm not sure if I'm happy with this chapter yet or not, but it gets us where we need to go next. Apparently I have trouble writing happy children. Go figure. Anyway, if anyone has any ideas of how to better this one, please don't hesitate to critisize dramatically. I'd work on it some more, but so far I've been working on it since before I went on break and it still won't get better so I obviously need another perspective if I'm going to fix it--or else it will just sit as a half-decent transitional chapter, which is really what it is. Anyway, enough of my whining, you're not here for that. Yes, as I said, the story is starting to move now. We're going places, hope you like them! Scene has been set, and onward little elflings! :)_

_And of course, thank you all! Your reviews are so wonderful and I just had to tell you all again. I really appreciate the feedback. Love you all!_


	13. When the Dark of Winter Comes

I know, I totally stole the title but what can I say, I really like that song…anyway, grab your warm clothing and especially your tissue boxes this chapter. That's right, I've warned you, there will be angsting this chapter. But that's what you're here for, isn't it? ;)

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Chapter Thirteen: When the Dark of Winter Comes…

Greenwood the Great was now, for the most part, white. A coating of pale snow had fallen on the branches and few still-clinging leaves; in Greenwood the leaves never fell completely from the trees, but hung tenaciously through both autumn and winter until the green buds of spring sprouted from their source. But spring was absent in the mind of the frail Elf who stood, staring sightlessly at the bare snow before him.

Thranduil stood rigidly as if frozen on a balcony of Greenwood's palace. His thin hands were clenched tightly on the carved railing as if they were all that prevented him from falling. It was quite possible; the king's slim form was gaunt and brittle and he looked as if the only reason the slight breeze did not push him over was that it had not yet managed to decide if it should send him spinning like the weightless flakes of snow or shatter him like the delicate sheen of ice coating the dark wood.

Thranduil's blond hair hung limp and pale in the wind, as knotted as Elven hair ever gets, and blew diffidently in front of once-bright eyes that did not notice the formerly gold strands that flitted across them. Thranduil's gaze was blank and bleak, despairing more than life would think possible to do so an continue on. Yet Thranduil was not living; he was fading.

The Elf-king whose very presence had once been enough to kindle fear in darkness and courage in his people was now a pale shadow slowly dying. His gaze had dulled, the fire that shone in his _fëa _bright enough to burn was extinguished. Where once a stern glance could have cowed the bravest warrior, now Thranduil's face was enough to chill the heart with its bitter grief and loss beyond enduring. The brave king was gone, lost in the darkness that had claimed his heart and stolen from him his forest—and his son.

Tiraran thought it likely that—providing he lived that long—when winter gave way to spring and the roads became once more passable, Thranduil would depart for the Havens. It tore at his heart to think of his once-proud king coming cowed to Valinor in defeat and despair, he who had parted many times on bitter words with those who chose to give up and flee for the Havens rather than fighting for this Middle-earth. But now Thranduil, ever the unyielding warrior, even the staunch defender—now he had lost hope, had lost the will to fight. Had lost, even, the will to live.

His tall form was bowed, shrunken; he seemed little more than a lost child in darkness that would not depart. Fighting back tears, the Elven _gon _walked slowly towards his commander and his friend. "My lord?" Tiraran broke the silence quietly but Thranduil gave no sign of hearing.

Thranduil was a difficult spirit to cow, and it had been a battle to do so. The Elven-king had clung desperately to false hope and wrath as long as he could, leading constant bands of warriors against the _yrch _hordes. Each time he had returned victorious, yet each time his eyes had been duller, his frame smaller, his hope fading like the frail leaves of autumn before a strong, chill wind of winter. The time between sorties increased and his wrath gave way to grief as hope proved—no matter how desperately clutched—to be a false promise.

And without that false promise to cling to, it seemed that Thranduil had nothing left to hold him here. Already he was slipping away, and there was nothing Tiraran or anyone else could do to hold him here. A chill that had nothing to do with the flakes falling around him swept the _gon_. What would become of them without their _aralor?_

When Oropher fell, the Elves of Greenwood had been lost and frightened. Thranduil had kindled that fear into rage and vengeance against the _yrch_. When the Alliance failed in victory, Thranduil had led the scattered remnants of his army—once his father's army—home and kept a grieving kingdom whole while _yrch_ and other foul things flocked through the lands searching for both vengeance on and shelter from those who had bested them. The scars and betrayal of the Last Alliance and the loss of so much had threatened to tear the kingdom apart even after the war was over—although few Elves of Greenwood considered it a war won—and Thranduil had united a grieving people. It was Thranduil who had led their stand against the remnants of the Dark Lord; Thranduil who had rallied a people already ill of fighting to fight harder; Thranduil who had kindled their hope in the midst of sadness.

But who could kindle that hope for Thranduil in his despair?

Tiraran stepped back from his king with grief and a coming loss already keenly felt glimmering like unshed tears in his grey eyes. He had stood by Thranduil for an Age, had walked with his lord through the fires of Mordor and the shadows of grief, but he could do nothing for him now. He studied the frail form with its bent head of pale gold in the empty white morning and mourned for his king. He was not yet gone, yet Tiraran was certain that he was already lost to them.

………………

_My Greenleaf…_

Thranduil stared unseeing at the white that covered his woodland realm. He did not feel the chill bite of the wind or the delicate flakes that dusted his bowed head. He was cold, but that feeling came from within rather than without. A deep chill had stolen the warmth of his blood the moment the _orch _had spoken its last words and a shadow had fallen on the Elf-king's heart. He could feel himself slipping away but he was removed from the feeling, as if he stood outside his body and watched.

There was nothing to hold him there anymore.

At some distant level, Thranduil knew that his people needed him, that Greenwood needed him. He knew that there was still life to be protected and darkness to drive back. But there was a veil between that knowledge and his thoughts that he could not penetrate; a veil that he did not try to part.

It was not the Sea Longing that affected him, nor the Call of Mandos that he heard. He did not hear anything—anything but faint echoes carried by the winds. Echoes of his child. The wind tormented him, whispering with Legolas's voice, but he did not turn aside. He could not. His child…

His child was gone, his Greenleaf taken by darkness and evil. In a time that should have been one of safety and peace, his son had been taken by the remnants of the shadow that had not been slain. He had lost father and friends to the destruction of that evil, but it endured. Still they were not free of it. All the sacrifices, all the loss, were for naught, for the evil had survived its ruin. And now—

Now it had taken Legolas. It had taken his son.

The bright elfling, always so curious, always so cheerful, was gone—dead. Slain by the foul _yrch_, more than likely—although it broke Thranduil's heart afresh to admit it—in torment beyond enduring. The thought of his precious child enduring such horrors… Thranduil shuddered, the most motion he had shown for hours. His eyes were heavy with tears but they seemed frozen by the chill of his spirit, unable to fall. He son was dead and he could not even weep for him. There was too much pain for tears.

There was too much pain for life.

………………

"How fares our lord?"

A quiet voice broke through Tiraran's bleak reverie and he turned to see Tarlas at the balcony's entrance. The advisor spoke to Tiraran but his worried eyes were completely focused on Thranduil. Tiraran sighed heavily before answering his longtime comrade.

"He is fading, Tarlas. He is fading and there is naught that we can do to halt it."

The other Elf studied the king with furrowed brow for a long moment, dark eyes as haunted as the _gon_ felt. "Alas that such evil should ever befall our strongest," he murmured.

Tiraran nodded in silent agreement, images of sacrifice and ill-fate as fresh in his mind as if they had taken place only yesterday rather than hundreds or thousands of years ago. Tiraran was one of the older Elves of Greenwood, and he could remember years that even Thranduil had not seen. Years were nothing to an Elf, and that was both their curse and their blessing. The little prince had fallen only a few short months ago, as summer faded to autumn. It was winter now, but that was but an eyeblink to the Elves. The only signs of the passing of time were the snowfall coating the forest leaves…and the increasing frailness of their king.

Tarlas walked forward on silent feet but had he made as much clatter as a Dwarf Thranduil would not have noticed him. The advisor, with his dark locks and broad shoulders cloaked in deep brown was a sharp contrast to Thranduil, tall and slimmer even than usual with his pale locks and paler robes. It was as if Tarlas still were bound to the earth, to life, but Thranduil was a shade of the ethereal no longer tied to Arda and nearly prepared to float away.

"My liege," Tarlas spoke quietly but volume could not disguise the power of his voice, "we are here for you." Thranduil gave no sign of hearing. "Your people need you." Still, the Elven-king did not react. With a sigh, Tarlas draped a warmer cloak gently about his lord's frail shoulders and stepped away, eyes clouded. Thranduil remained motionless, unchanged, but it seemed to Tiraran as if the heavy cloak somehow anchored the fading king—for a moment—weighing him back to the earth before he could drift away.

"It will not be long, will it?" the _gon_ asked in a voice that was not a question.

"No," Tarlas replied with equal bleakness, "I fear it shall not."

"Almost I would wish for an attack against us, for that it might re-kindle his wrath and bind him here with anger," Tiraran spoke softly.

Tarlas smiled without mirth. "I wonder if even that would reach him now."

Tiraran shook his head. "You have not seen him in battle as I have, mellon nin," the warrior replied. "He is not yet so far gone that such would have no power of rousing him."

Tarlas nodded, accepting his friend's words. He had been left in charge of Greenwood—despite his pleading with Oropher to accept his sword rather than his speechcraft—and had not seen the death of one king shape the form of the other. Tiraran had, and he would trust to his knowledge of their lord and friend in such matters over his own conjecture. "Yet would even that be enough to shake him from this bitter despair for long?" the advisor whispered.

Tiraran was silent for a long moment, then he sighed. "Nay," he answered sadly, "I fear that even were all the hordes of Darkness on the edges of our lands, still we would lose him to this grief."

"He is fading," Tarlas whispered, echoing the other's words. "And there is naught that we can do to halt it."

Tiraran had no answer for that, and so stayed silent. Long the two Elves stood in the dance of snow, staring bleakly at the figure in front of them who had once been so fiery and unyielding. Now Thranduil was bent—nearly broken—life slowly fading from this sorrow as blood from a sluggish mortal wound.

And none could to aught to halt it.

………………

The winter snow made tracking easy, when one was not tracking creatures who leave such slight imprint that a few flakes will smooth all traces of passage from sight. Yet there are things that do not need sight to trail their target through a forest, and one of those things is guilt.

Easily keeping pace with the cloaked figure in the cold forest of Greenwood, guilt followed the Elf as he searched without hope of finding. Its fingers were deep in his heart and there was nothing in all of Arda that could remove them. Not even Valinor could heal this hurt, he was certain, for all the tales he had heard of the Blessed Realm and its grace. Neither in life nor in death could he find release from this failure.

Aglarmegil paused as pain crossed his fair, grief-aged face, but he fought it back down. Rubbing his left arm, he continued through the frozen woods, blank grey eyes scanning hopelessly but ceasingly. He knew there was no hope, yet that was why he had to look. If he still held hope, he would not be in the thrall of despair, and it was despair that drove him into the forest alone and still half-healed.

The Elven warrior had been wounded in the first skirmishes of the Last Alliance, and had not been at Thranduil's side to see the then-prince's grief when Oropher was cut down. He had served by Thranduil's side since then, but he had not had any preparation for the look in his lord's eyes when he told him the fate of his child. The king, always strong and proud and unflinching before the darkest of situations—and Aglarmegil had been beside him in many that would quail Elf Lords accounted greater than Thranduil, although no Elf of Greenwood would admit to such a claim—had shattered.

Aglarmegil could no more forget the frozen despair in Thranduil's face than he could the last shrill scream of Legolas he had heard before darkness took him from the battle. Both sight and sound echoed through his dreams, mixed together in a horrifying distortion of his failure.

His shame.

His guilt.

It flashed before his eyes and reverberated in his ears, leaving no peace for the broken warrior.

It also distracted him. That was why he did not notice that he had stumbled into a _yrch _camp until they were upon him. Dull eyes flashed with surprise, and Aglarmegil smoothly drew his sword with his good hand and turned to face the foul creatures that had been the cause of such grief and sorrow—such death.

Death did not frighten Aglarmegil; he was as beyond fear as he was hope.

The _yrch _saw something strange in the eyes of this Elf; it was not fear, it was not wrath…it was something else, something that they could not understand. They did not recognize the shadows of guilt, and they hesitated. But only for a moment. He was, after all, an Elf, whatever was in his grey eyes.

And for Elves, the _yrch _possess only hate. Hate and death.

They charged.

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**Reviewer Responses:**

**Alma –** wow. Cool. Okay then, I'll take your opinion on that one! Thanks. Nothing else I can say to that. Again, thank you. Appreciated!

**EastCoastie1500 –** "Does the rolling help?" "It helps." "Where's Andúril?" "Uh…" lol. Ah, a _Galaxy Quest_/_Lord of the Rings _parody…just what we—dammit, Nuzgûl go _away! _That was a joke, a _joke! _Sigh. Anyway, I'm gonna go with what you know. I'm just demented.

**Laiquendi –** Rise, my dear. ;) Shame shame shame shame…hee! Thranduil, what, me? I don't have the _faintest _idea _what _you're talking about. Suspicious? Of _moi? _Laiquendi, you wound me! Heh heh heh… Oops. Um, pretend that that little bout of cackling and rubbing together of hands never happened, 'kay? Thanks…

_Wow guys, really appreciate that! I'm glad you liked it. I went back and read it again, and decided it really wasn't that bad. I just know that I have trouble doing children so I think I over-analyzed. Anyway, your words were very helpful and as always, just getting the reviews meant a lot! Thanks! Okay, I know, you wanted to see what happened to the elflings, and I promise, you will…we just had to clear up a few details in Greenwood first before we could _really_ leave it and catch up with the kids. Don't worry, I'll fill you all in soon! _

_The next post might be a little late; it depends on how long my projects take this week-end. It won't be _too_ long, I can promise that much at least, but don't expect anything until the end of the week-end (because I will not _put_ off homework to write fanfiction, I will _not_ put off homework to write fanfiction…grr… It's an addiction, what can I say? And when you're already a Queen of Procrastination…heh. Bad things happen. Willpower…I will be strong, and _not_ put off homework for fanfiction…I will _not_ put off homwork for—stop laughing!)_


	14. The Dying of the Light

_Please realize that I don't even have a clear picture of the geography of my _state_, let alone my country. I have a better sense of Middle-earth's geography than of _our_ earth, but that _really_ isn't saying much. As such, there are bound to be numerous errors that crop up as we leave Greenwood behind (can't really go wrong with "there were lots of trees" you know?), so please do your best to be lenient about such details. Anything glaring, point out and I will do my best to correct it. Anything hugely out of place that I can't change without redoing half the story will just have to stay there and accept my apologies. Thanks!_

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Chapter Fourteen: The Dying of the Light

The first thing that passed through Aglarmegil's mind was darkness. It was swiftly followed by pain. As consciousness gradually returned to the Elven warrior, be slowly became aware that he was being dragged by his arms across a hard floor. He dangled limply between two captors, whoever they were—

And with that thought, he remembered. _Yrch! _Panic threatened to swamp his groggy mind but Aglarmegil managed to fight it back down. He had been through many battles and many evil situations; he was not going to lose control because of a few _yrch_…or so he convinced himself. Only his rigid discipline and long experience enabled the Elf to calm himself, for he knew full well what happened to Elves in the possession of _yrch_.

He had seen many of the bodies.

Aglarmegil concentrated on his breathing, trying to keep it steady and slow his heart. With every shallow gasp, however, he could feel more of his injuries. His broken ribs had not yet pierced his lungs, but they seemed only seconds away from doing so to the warrior. The wound on his chest had reopened—or perhaps this was a fresh wound—and blood dripped heavily from that as well as numerous shallower cuts. Something seemed to be wrong with his right hand, for that arm was strangely numb at the wrist and beyond that he could feel nothing. The Elf absently wondered why his other arm was not protesting more at being bent at this angle and used so harshly when it had still been nigh-useless from his previous battle, then decided that he did not want to think about that. He was certain that it was not something that he wanted to know—especially with his head pounding as it was. He felt battered all over, badly enough that it took him a few minutes to realize that the stabbing pains shooting through his leg could not be entirely the fault of the rough ground he was being pulled across. Thinking of the ground, the Elf suddenly noticed that he had yet to open his eyes and decided to make that his next task.

He knew that being in the _yrch's _hands meant that he was already dead, but he was determined to die with the pride and nobility of a warrior of Greenwood the Great. It was all he had left. He had already failed his lord and the child he had sworn to guard. Pointless though it might be, Aglarmegil was determined not to fail in this.

The _yrch _would not make him scream.

…………………

A loud cry rang out over the snow-covered mountains, making Gildor's horse shy a moment with surprise. Stifling a sigh, the Noldor directed a tired glance that plainly said, _are you done yet? _at the golden-haired figure in front of him as he calmed his mount. His kinsman cheerfully ignored him and leaned down to whisper something to his grey horse, who whinnied in understanding.

_They are in league against me_, Gildor thought with another suppressed sigh. _I should never have listened to Lord Elrond._

It was all because of Erestor, Elrond's chief councilor at Imladris. He and Glorfindel rarely saw precisely eye-to-eye. They were ever civil, but Erestor was cautious and given to prudence while Glorfindel far preferred bold acts to prudence. The councilor oft maintained that since returning from Mandos, Glorfindel took nothing seriously, and while that was not quite true, Gildor thought, it was close. Few things were dire to Glorfindel and even those that gravely upset Lord Elrond the Gondolin Elf would take in stride. Glorfindel was ever a calm head, although not precisely in the way that Erestor was. Erestor was calm in the traditional way that most Elves are calm; he was not given to distress or overreacting. Glorfindel was calm in a disturbing serenity that was rarely ruffled even by those things that ought to worry one. Erestor fretted; Glorfindel grinned. And Erestor had been fretting that morning over rumors of gathering darkness—and Glorfindel had been smiling.

Elrond had diplomatically suggested that Glorfindel scout the High Pass, and quickly. The snows were heavy this winter and had started early, and thus already it was nigh-impossible to imagine anyone successfully crossing the Misty Mountains this time of year. However, Elrond had delicately argued, one could never be certain, and if the faint rumors that were so upsetting Erestor had any truth to them it was best to be certain. Glorfindel had not been deterred at being sent on a mission that was so obviously nothing more than an attempt to separate him and Erestor for the sake of Elrond's temperament. Glorfindel loved riding, snow, sun, stars, trees, mountains, danger, adventures, and generally being a bit too rambunctious for the good health and peace of mind of everyone else in Imladris, as Erestor often put it.

And somehow, Gildor had been talked into going along. He was not entirely certain how it had occurred; one moment, he had wandered in to see what was going on and if he could be of any aid. The next, he had been sitting on his horse riding out of Imladris's gate. He ought to have known better than to offer assistance when Erestor and Glorfindel were in the same room, but he had spoken before taking close note of who was within with Lord Elrond.

In truth, he did not mind, for he was still fond of Arda and had no plans to leave Middle-earth any time in the near future. He enjoyed riding and had no more problem with snow than any Elf did; in fact, he was rather fond of it himself. To be sure, he loved grass and flowers and trees in bloom but there was something about the glimmering whiteness that so delicately coated leaf and branch reflecting almost silver-white in the sunlight that reminded the Exile ever so faintly of—

"Gildor!"

His reverie was abruptly broken once more. Glorfindel had apparently seen something interesting and was excited by his discovery. Gildor sighed and shook his head. He had believed that a few hundred years would dull his distant kinsman's exhilaration of exploring this new Middle-earth, much changed from when he had last walked it.

Apparently it would take at least a few hundred more to dampen Glorfindel's enthusiasm to reasonable levels.

…………………

Consciousness must have faded back out without him being aware of it, for it returned suddenly and painfully as Aglarmegil hit a rough stone floor. He gasped in both shock and hurt as his injured body collided with the hard surface and his memory rushed back.

_Yrch!_

The warrior froze for a moment in fear, then willed himself to be calm. Restraining a groan of pain, he slowly pulled his mangled body upright until he was seated awkwardly. He realized that he would never be able to stand—not in the shape he was in now.

His right leg was twisted at an impossible angle and blood was dripping from his boot. More blood oozed down his chest, staining his forest green tunic a vibrant red. His ribs made it hard to breathe and harder yet to remain still, for they ached like shattered glass scraping against his insides bent like this. He attempted to straighten up but gave that idea up when a spasm of pain protested. His left arm looked worse than before; its bandaged were now tattered bloody straps trailing like obscene ribbons and the bones had been snapped visibly in at least two places. He could see the tip protruding through the skin near his wrist and turned away feeling ill. That was no better, for now he faced his good arm. Or what used to be his good arm. His fingers…every one of them had been broken. At each joint. Strangely, he could feel no pain from those injuries—gruesome although they were to behold—and he knew that he must be in shock.

He realized suddenly that he could see only through his right eye, and was suddenly thankful that his fingers were useless; his left arm would not move at all, and he could get the shattered fingers of his right hand to do little more than twitch weakly. But that meant that he had not been able to give in to the first impulse of feeling out the extent of this injury. It was possible that it was merely swelled shut…but from the heavy stickiness that he felt on his cheek he doubted very much that the eye remained intact. At least his head was clearer. Pounding fit to burst, but clear.

Forcing himself to breath slowly and willing his battered body not to betray him, Aglarmegil looked up. His one eye was fiery and determined, promising the _yrch _that he looked upon that as he went to his death, so too would they find theirs.

Aglarmegil knew that he was dead. He could hear Mandos calling—but he would not go yet. He would not float away on that comforting, comfortless voice…much as he yearned to. He had disgraced himself once. He would not do so again. Let the _yrch _do as they would; let the Valar offer what peace they could.

This Elven Warrior was not going to leave this life without a fight.

…………………

_Do not go gentle into that good night,  
Despair should burn and rave at close of day;  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

_Though Warriors at their end hope they were right,  
Because trusting not in Shadow's lies they  
Do not go gentle into that good night._

_Exiles, the last ship burned, crying how bright  
Their frail deeds might have danced on shores of white,  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

_The Ageless caught and sang the sun in flight,  
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,  
Do not go gentle into that good night._

_Brave those, near death, who see with blinding sight  
That Dark Lord's lies and power will here remain  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

_They know not all Dark can be slain by might,  
Yet still they stand 'gainst Shadow fierce and proud.  
Do not go gentle into that good night.  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.  
_—I pray only that Dylan Thomas will forgive me. This was once his poem, before I got my fiendish, unpoetic hands upon it to create this travesty.

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_Note: My version of Gildor Inglorion (the Elf who will later meet Frodo on the hobbit's journey out of the Shire with the Nazgûl on his tail) stems from the entry for "Inglorion" on the Encyclopedia of Arda and my own imagination, as there is almost no information out there—thus meaning that I may make him up entirely. Further, I have decided that for the purposes of this story Glorfindel of Imladris is the same reincarnated Glorfindel of Gondolin, because that is far, far more fun. ;) I have also chosen, for no reason whatsoever other than dialogue and interaction purposes, to utilize the possibility of Glorfindel's golden hair being evidence of his descent from Indis. This would, then, tie him in kinship to Gildor, because Indis is Finrod's grandmother. This also means that both are related to Galadriel somehow—not that that has anything to do with anything, really—and thus to Elladan and Elrohir…again, somehow. I'm not going to try to put forth any theories as to how. See the Encyclopedia of Arda for more explanation at_ glyphweb_DOT_com_SLASH_arda_SLASH_default_DOT_htm _And now that I've gone into far too much detail for such minor things that probably nobody even blinked at, it's time for the…_

**Reviewer Responses:**

**Deana –** yes indeed, and thank you kindly!

**Laiquendi –** Bwahahaha! That is quite right, never trust an author, especially me! Well, I suppose you know what Aglarmegil has found now…heh heh…so much for saving the day, right? _grin! _People, please remember, I already have thirty chapters outlined. Could I really save the day before I'd even written half of that number? Heh heh heh…so I suppose that protective streak will really be getting a work out…

**K-Dog** – Mmm…not yet… By the way, greatest review _ever_. Seriously.

**Alma –** Why thank you! And I'm glad you don't mind me stretching it out a bit more. ;)

**EastCoastie1500 –** I'm sorry. We're kind of at a little excitement-lull here. I'll try find a way to work some in for you, 'kay? But definitely more Aglarmegil and angst coming right up!

**Coolio02 –** thank you very much, I'll try to oblige with haste.

**Aranna --** Aw! Here, have a tissue. And I hope the update helped, even though I'm afraid poor Thranduil's just going to have to deal with it for awhile…sorry, Elf-king fans! And good luck with that teacher…

_Honestly, the poem? It just came to mind as I wrote the end of the chapter, and it wouldn't go away. Hmm, so so far this fic I've been plagued by a song and a poem…what's next, a painting? Anyway, I really don't know why I did that. It just sort of happened. So I hope you just enjoy it for the little thing it is and don't really focus on the inanity. Thanks. And hopefully my psychotic researching of a suitable Rivendell Elf to accompany Glorfindel will make up for whatever psychotic reasoning went through my mind as I snatched…and mutilated…the poem. Bamfchica has already threatened my life, so nobody needs to feel obligated do that. I promise to never do anything like that again. ;)_


	15. Snow and Shadow

_Welcome back all, sorry it's been a little while. I've had to do a bit more research for a couple chapters here than I thought I would. Well, I don't mean I _had_ to, I just mean that because I'm obsessed with detail and continuity, I had to. You understand, I'm sure…_

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Chapter Fifteen: Snow and Shadow

Gildor sighed as he dismounted and exchanged a long-suffering glance with his horse before walking slowly up behind Glorfindel. Then he gasped and, with a mumbled "Elbereth!" dropped to his knees in the snow as he saw what Glorfindel was hurriedly digging out from the snow.

"But—how—an elfling?" he stammered in shock, staring at the small, snow-covered form.

"No," Glorfindel corrected as calmly as if he were discussing his choice of tunic to wear today, "two elflings."

Gildor's eyes widened even further when he caught sight of the other tiny creature. This one could only just be glimpsed by the tip of his tiny face and one small hand curled beside the cold cheek in the snow bank.

Glorfindel pulled the first elfling free of the snow and passed her to Gildor. He hurriedly wrapped the small figure in his cloak and arms, noting with surprise that she carried quiver, bow, and sword. He automatically murmured soothing words despite knowing from her frighteningly closed eyes that she could not hear them. He watched, rocking the frail form in his arms, as Glorfindel quickly dug through the snow to the other child, until the Elf Lord paused and turned to him.

"What are you doing?" Glorfindel asked quietly.

"I beg your pardon?" Gildor responded, affronted. He was only trying to be comforting…

Glorfindel raised one eyebrow and looked at Gildor as if he were as young as Lord Elrond's sons. "The child needs warmth and care that we cannot provide out here. She must be taken to Lord Elrond with all haste," he explained patiently and waited a moment. "Should you not take her to him?" he prompted.

Gildor started. "What, and leave you?" he asked in confusion. "What if something should happen? Would it not be best to remain together?"

Glorfindel's face took on its most irritating expression. Elladan and Elrohir had christened it his "I was alive in the First Age and it is obvious that you must all be incompetent, if I had not been dead things would have gone differently after the Fall of Gondolin and you are all most fortunate that I came back to take care of you foolish children." It was a fitting description, Gildor thought.

"Gildor," said Glorfindel with a half-smile, "do you really think that I need you to protect me from snow?" The Elf laughed. "What is it going to do to me?"

"But do you really think it wise to separate? What of Erestor's rumors," Gildor began then realized his mistake.

Glorfindel turned back to the buried elfling. "Erestor frets when a bird sneezes," he responded coldly. "But if it will ease your anxiety, I had every intention of catching up to you 'ere the night came. I am by far the faster rider and Kelwioor the swifter steed." The Balrog-slayer turned to glare at him. "The sooner you set out, the sooner we reach Imladris."

_I think I prefer it when he acts like an elfling_, Gildor thought sourly as he mounted his horse, making sure that the girl-child was securely wrapped in his cloak. _At least when he is being childish he is not so chillingly calm and superior!_

"Noro lim," he whispered to his mount as he raced back down the path their trail had left in the snow. The sooner they returned to Imladris the better.

He may be accounted among the greatest of the Wise, but Gildor Inglorion was never listening to Lord Elrond again.

……………………

Harsh, whispery laughter like the sound of dead leaves brushing across long-abandoned bones echoed loudly in the close confines of the cavelike room. The _yrch _fell silent, shifting slightly as if in either fear or eagerness—perhaps both. Aglarmegil tried to turn to face the sound, but could barely manage to move his head. It was all he could do to keep his thoughts from flying apart. He caught a glimpse of dark red, almost black; a robed figure approached. It's footsteps were silent, only the faint hiss of cloth on rough stone giving away its motion.

Aglarmegil summoned a defiant glower as he stared at the dim figure. It was standing near him so that he would have to crane his neck up at an angle that it would not reach to see it clearly so instead the Elven warrior stared straight ahead at the cowed _yrch _in front of him. The only reason he did not leap out of his skin when the figure spoke was because he would never have been able to manage the activity necessary to move in such a manner.

"_Mae govannen tithen maethor_," it hissed in a sibilant whisper that sent the shadows scurrying for shelter.

_Sindarin? _Aglarmegil thought in shock. _It speaks Sindarin! _His foggy mind missed the creature's next words as he tried feverishly to make some sense of this. How was it that a being serving—or perhaps being served by—_yrch_ spoke Sindarin? And in a Greenwood accent, no less! He shivered slightly and while he would have liked to think that it was from injury and loss of blood, he knew that it was because he sensed something dark and foul creeping towards his _fëa_.

The _yrch _hissed quietly at the sound of the Elvish tongue, but none made comment. That, more than anything, convinced Aglarmegil that the situation was far more dire than he had at first thought. Being captured by a band of _yrch _was one thing, and foul enough a fate. But finding a band of _yrch _under a strange leader who spoke Sindarin and commanded enough respect and fear to use the Elvish tongue in front of the _yrch_ without worrying about complaint…that was something else entirely.

Aglarmegil's first thought was to warn the _aran_, tell Thranduil—but he quickly realized that such was not to be his fate. With a sinking feeling of despair, the warrior realized that once again he had failed his lord. Here was dark news indeed, and yet he was unable to do anything against it. He could not act here, and he could not bring the word to those who could. Greenwood, Thranduil, Tiraran—they needed to be warned! And yet he could do nothing. Again, he was helpless—useless.

"Aglarmegil, yes" The sound of his name spoken in that chilling hiss brought the warrior back to the present. He forced himself to glance up angrily at his captor, but the deep shadows of the dark hood hid any sign of its face from view. He could not even tell what species it was, although he did not think that it was an _orch_. For one thing, it spoke Sindarin; for another, it walked far too silently. And there was something about it…something almost familiar, that led Aglarmegil to decide that it was not one of the foul horde. That made it worse; if it was not an _orch_, yet it was followed by _yrch_, it was some minion of darkness and evil that they did not know of. Not one of the Ulaer; they had an altogether different feeling, one that froze the heart and ate the soul. This creature was more of a slimy corruption of shadow gradually wrapping itself around its prey and smothering the light.

A cold hand grasped Aglarmegil's chin, sharp nails pricking spots of blood, and wrenched the Elf's head upright. He managed to restrain his gasp of pain but the throbbing in his head and wounded eye nearly made him black out. Breathing carefully he kept his face stonily neutral and gradually brought the world back into focus.

"I asked you a question, _maethor_," the cloaked figure snarled in a whisper. "You are called Aglarmegil, no?" The fact that an enemy was speaking Sindarin was still difficult for Aglarmegil to comprehend and he replied with a quiet affirmative before he thought. Still, what mattered it who he was? He did not know what was going on, what the reason for the question was, nor how the creature had learned his name, but he could not think of any reason to wish he had not answered.

The figure released him roughly and it took every bit of Aglarmegil's willpower to not collapse to the rough hewn floor. He forced himself to straighten despite the pain and glared fiercely at his captor who moved away a few steps to study him.

"You do not look well, _maethor_," the strange being hissed with dark amusement in his raspy whisper of a voice. The figure turned and croaked something to the _yrch _in the Black Speech of Mordor. Aglarmegil trembled, unable to stop his ears against the foul sound. When the cloaked being turned back to him, it somehow gave the impression of smiling. "You are dying, are you not, brave one?"

Aglarmegil's only reply was a harsh glare almost reminiscent of fallen Oropher's fire in its potency.

"Yes," the heavily cloaked figure continued in a faint hiss, "and you know it as well as I. But you may go to Mandos in whatever way seems best to you—for I am merciful to those who please me." The figure crouched gingerly, as if the motion pained it, and its dark, empty hood of shadows stared piercingly into the warrior's face. "Yet to those with whom I am ill-pleased," it said in a voice dripping of an evil grin, "I can be most vindictive. You are in pain, you have suffered enough. It is not your pain that I would take pleasure from, Aglarmegil. You are nothing but a tool, and breaking a tool does little to break its master."

The Elf could not form a spoken reply; he seemed caught fast by the creature's unseen eyes and unable to speak. Yet that did not mean that he was going to acquiesce to the darkness in front of, around, seeping within him. Aglarmegil glowered fiercely at his captor. He was a warrior of Greenwood the Great, and he would not be cowed be Shadow.

"Ah yes," the figure hissed, "pride. Of what good is your duty now, Aglarmegil? Where is your honor at; what have you before you but failure and falling?"

The Elf trembled; it was the pain, he told himself, but he knew that he was wrong. It was the guilt, the failure. The dark figure was right; he had lost his honor, his duty, in failure. He did not know how this strange creature knew of his failing, but the words cast a shadow over the warrior's bright remaining eye.

"What good will your honor be in dying, _maethor?_ Will it lessen the pain, soften the leaving of life? Will it save you when you start to scream and cannot stop? Will your king ride to your rescue, Aglarmegil? Will Thranduil save you from your screams…will he save you from your weakness? From the Shadow as it claims you for its own?"

The dark figure leaned closer, its voice now so faint that none but Aglarmegil could hear the hissing words. "Let it go, Aglarmegil. Your duty to the 'king' is over now; you have only your duty to yourself now. You have not yet failed yourself—you yet live. All you need do is please me, and you may die without pain. Please me, Aglarmegil. Please me and drift to Mandos in peace, surrounded by the caressing trees and mourning winds. Speak."

Both figures sat in silence for what seemed an Age as time turned slowly on its wheel. Aglarmegil's sharp eye searched the cloaked figure in front of him, looking for an answer. The other said nothing, did not move, hardly breathed. Merely waited. The _yrch_, silent observers, waited too; they faded from awareness. They did not matter, they were background. All that there was were these two figures; the one bleeding and broken, the other twisted in dark robes. Time held its breath.

"All right." Aglarmegil's voice was even quieter than the other's rasping hiss. He bowed his dark, bloodstained head. "I will speak."

"Then tell me, for I am curious, why Thranduil does not ride against the _yrch _for their hurts done his son." The figure nearly quivered in anticipation, but Aglarmegil did not notice. He was shrouded in shadow now, dull and no longer caring. He saw only darkness behind his closed eye; the sweet, endless dark that waited to claim him. Gone were all thoughts of Mandos; he sought only oblivion.

"He fades," the warrior whispered. "He fades, and his anger with him."

"And what of Tiraran?" The figure snarled the name like a curse or a foul taste. "Does he not yet command the warriors? Why does he not strike, if Thranduil cannot?"

"My _gon _fears too much to leave his lord's side," Aglarmegil replied tonelessly. "He does little, trusting in his people to order themselves for the kingdom's safety while he attends the king."

The warrior was too dulled by his surrender to notice the figure twitch, as if seeing something that did not match up with the rest of the pieces with which he worked. "And the princeling?" he hissed.

For the first time, emotion showed on Aglarmegil's face. The warrior's dull shell cracked and bright tears shone in his eye as guilt shone in his soul. "Legolas," he whispered, voice hoarse. "His loss was a mortal blow to the king, we fear—and without Thranduil, can Greenwood stand?" Anxious fear was in the Elf's quiet words. He was too deeply immersed in grief and guilt mixed with worry for his people and his lord to notice the figure's reaction until it lurched painfully to its feet.

"His loss?" the cloaked being asked harshly. "Then the son of Thranduil has died?"

Aglarmegil looked up at his captor then, tears in his remaining eye. "The _yrch_—" he whispered, his heart still in shards. "When they attacked—" he could not finish, but closed his eyes against he pain, not of his body but of the _fëa_ as he remembered.

That harsh, chilling laugh of death brought him back once more to reality. He figure had thrown its cloaked hood back and was cackling to itself. "Fool!" he snarled in a whisper. "All are fools, and I along with them! They, thinking the elfling dead at my hands, and I thinking him safe in theirs! And all of us are wrong!!" He spun back to the _yrch _that still stood around them and spoke rapidly in hissing Black Speech. The _yrch _clambered and jostled, but at a command from the cloaked figure they fell silent again, although they exchanged evil glances with one another. Another whisper and a group of them bowed and scraped their way from the room.

Aglarmegil stared in shock as he slowly processed what had happened. He trembled in both fear and shame as the truth sunk in. The prince was not dead—not yet; at least not at the hand of the _yrch! _But now—again he had failed! In his despair, he had set the enemy once more searching for the child. A painful chill spread through his veins as he stared in horror at the cloaked figure in front of him.

What had he done?

Still cackling to itself, the twisted being turned back to Aglarmegil and smiled. The Elf was only just now realizing his deed and it was amusing to watch the shock, comprehension, fear, shame, and despair chase one another across his fair, broken face.

"I thank you, Aglarmegil," it hissed. The wounded Elf twitched and turned his bloody face up to the cloaked figure standing over him. "You have given me new hope. I am pleased."

"_Law_," the Elf gasped, remaining eye wide with horror. He seemed unable to speak any more than that futile denial as he stared at his captor.

The cloaked figure gestured to one of the _yrch_ and spoke a few quiet words. Two _yrch _hauled the broken Elf to his feet but Aglarmegil seemed not to notice them. He just stared at the twisted creature in front of him. "_Law_," he said again desperately.

The figure smiled and lightly caught the Elf's chin in its thin hand. Leaning in close, it studied the Elf and was pleased at what it saw. Breaking one of the Firstborn was difficult—but oh, so rewarding. The figure smiled, and the Elf jerked in surprise.

Quickly stepping back, the twisted figure pulled its hood lower, hiding its face from the dim light. The astonishment in the Elf's grey eye did not leave however; he had seen what lay below the shadows of that hood. The figure's lips twisted into something that could be called equally a smile or a snarl. Very well, let him see; one more dark surprise for the Elf to take to his grave…eventually.

The cloaked figure gestured and the _yrch_, smiling cruelly, dragged the Elf away.

Aglarmegil did not resist—just stared at the creature unblinking. He did not feel the first blow that the _yrch _cast upon him; nor did he feel those that followed. His mouth was open but no sound escaped it; neither scream nor prayer. Once his lips formed a word, but his voice did not echo the motion with speech and it was lost amid the distant sounds of tearing skin and breaking limbs. Aglarmegil just stared blankly into the darkness; into both failure and shock.

Over and over before his eyes, two scenes played out. _Yrch _swarmed, and an Elf fell—and did not get up. A shrill scream echoed in his ears; the _yrch _did not hear it. In his memory, Aglarmegil screamed a denial of the sight, but in the cold cave he was silent.

Nothing the _yrch _did could move him, for no pain they caused could possibly equal that of his own making. Over and over, the horror of his failures flashed before his eyes. The _yrch _swarmed, and the Elf—his friend; his charge—the Elf fell…and fell…and fell…

And there was only Darkness waiting to engulf him.

maethor – warrior  
tithen – little  
law – no, indeed not

* * *

There's some question as to what language was spoken in Lórien and Mirkwood, due to a bit in Fellowship: 

"There was a sound of soft laughter over their heads, and then another clear voice spoke in an elven-tongue. Frodo could understand little of what was said, for the speech that the Silvan folk east of the mountains used among themselves was unlike that of the West. Legolas looked up and answered in the same language." –"_Lothlórien," Fellowship of the Ring _

...but it's all sorted out later, so here's the explanation for anyone who might have been caught off guard at hearing Sindarin spoken in Greenwood:

"In Lorien at this period Sindarin was spoken, though with an 'accent,' since more of its folk were of Silvan origin. This 'accent' and his own limited aquiaintence with Sindarin misled Frodo." _–"Appendix F," Return of the King _

So now that that's been cleared up, we can move on to…

**Reviewer Responses:**

**Deana –** you are an evil, evil woman. I hope you're happy now! Did you see what you made me do? Hmph! Pain in the neck indeed… ;P

**Laiquendi – **Evil One here; greetings yourself! Hmm…I shall have to look that up. Steamrollers in Middle-earth…I'll check with Gimli. Er, in a couple thousand years when he's born…yeah…didn't think of that. But bounds for cruelty? Never! Bwahahahaha! What kind of an Evil One would I be then? :D

**Alma –** yeah, I'm detail obsessed, what can I say? Even when it's painful details. And the way I figure, if he wasn't an Elven warrior trained to be in control of his mind in dire situations for a few thousand years, yeah, he'd probably be unconscious; it's that whole Elven-will that lets him hang on…but he wasn't _entirely _lucid, or at least I tried to present it that way—losing his grip ever-so-slightly, otherwise he would never have fallen into the "twisted figure's" verbal trip-up. I don't know if it worked or if it was too subtle, let me know, but anyway, thank you. I'll do my best!

**EastCoastie –** well, I can't help you out with _Lost_, as I literally know nothing about DragonBallZ so I'd be a little _too_ "lost," but you updated _Sprites _so I can do my good deed there! :) Um, how do I write? Well, er, I read all the time…and I like to make up stories…and I obsess over details and continuity twitches, so I tend to try to fill in/explain those things in my mind…so I guess that's it? Oh yeah, and I have no life, so I do it all the time! Far more fun to drop into Middle-earth or Coruscant for a few hours than to go to a party or bar or wherever and be uncomfortable pretending to be interested in who's fooling around with who or whatever. So, there you go: obsession and introversion! ;) And I hope you get the 60th review soon! I would if I could… :( Any DBZ fans, go read EastCoastie's story NOW! Consider it an order!

**Aranna –** Why thank you! Yes, I'm a detail-freak too…in fact, I think the only time I've ever thought something went into too much detail was…give me a minute, I know I can come up with one…er… Anyway, good luck with your lessons! And how about an update right now? _grin! _

Again, thanks to all who reviewed, and shame to all who do not update, especially Deana! ;) Hee! And don't worry, I promise to keep being evil for quite a while yet! More than thirty chapters outlined, and I still haven't worked out the very end! I hope you all stick around and keep telling me what you think.


	16. Questions

Yay I'm back! And the evilness continues. Isn't it wonderful? I hate the internet…I love it, but stars, do I hate it…sigh! Anyway, about those elflings…

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Chapter Sixteen: Questions

"Lord Elrond! Lord Elrond!"

_Erestor_, the Lord of Imladris thought as he carefully cleaned his quill and set it next to the parchment on which he had been writing. _That is the voice he uses when the twins have injured themselves._ The Elf Lord rose and walked to the door of his study with perfect timing to intercept his councilor as Erestor dashed down the hallway.

"What is it this time, Erestor?" Elrond asked with deceptive calmness. Only those who had known the _peredhel_ for ages would be able to detect the slight tension to his stance and the brittleness to his composed expression. One would think that he would be used to the twins and their penchant for trouble—and injury—by now, but he was their father and he would never be able to face the prospect of yet another broken elfling to fix without some worry, however common an occurrence it might be. "Elladan, or Elrohir, or both?"

"Nay, my lord," Erestor said with perfect composure save for his worried grey eyes. "For perhaps the first time since they were born, the twins are—to my knowledge—currently unharmed."

Elrond's eyebrows drew together. "Then what is it?" he asked quickly.

Erestor shook his head and gestured for the Elf Lord to accompany him down the hallway. He explained as they quickly walked towards the courtyard. "I know not; only that Gildor has returned without Glorfindel and in great haste, calling for healing. He does not appear injured—perhaps a bit haggard and distraught—and I did not take the time to listen to his explanations before coming to fetch you."

Elrond nodded, as confused as his chief advisor. Gildor was not an easily excitable Elf, although he was occasionally lacking when it came to requiring explanations of him. That Glorfindel was not with his kinsman was cause for concern, not only because of the rumors of orcsthat Erestor had spoken of. Glorfindel had a penchant for…not exactly rashness, but perhaps overconfidence. He somehow managed to never suffer greatly as a result of the overconfidence, but it did lead him to take risks that a saner individual might have counseled against.

If he was in such straits that Gildor dared not bring him back… Elrond increased his pace slightly, mentally running through a list of the herbs he would need. It was difficult, as he did not know what sort of injuries the Balrog-slayer had sustained. There was a time that Elrond would have thought that there were only so many ways in which he could be injured, but time raising the twins had taught him that there was no end to the creative ways in which a creature could find to harm itself.

Elrond paused when he saw Bronsell, one of the healers, walk into one of the rooms they used for the injured carrying a pile of warm blankets. She hurried back out in moments, pausing when she saw Elrond.

"My lord," she said politely as he and Erestor fell into step with her.

"Think you that so many blankets are necessary, Bronsell?" Elrond asked neutrally.

The dark-haired Elf nodded seriously. "She is half-frozen, my lord. Excuse me." With a nod she detached from the two other Elves and disappeared down a side hall that led towards the kitchens.

Elrond blinked. "She?"

"I have no idea," Erestor answered helplessly.

"Then I suppose it is not Glorfindel who is injured after all," Elrond murmured thoughtfully.

Erestor shrugged; he had no more idea as to what was going on than did the other. Elrond sighed, a sneaking suspicion creeping over the Elf Lord that, even without Elladan and Elrohir carting each other back half-dead from their latest adventure, it was going to be a very long day.

They met Gildor coming up the hall with two other Elves. The golden-haired Elf looked pale and drawn as if he had pushed himself long without proper rest. Snow still coated his hair, although it was now melting in chill trails down the stiff, half-frozen cloak he still wore. Elrond raised an eyebrow, wondering why the Elf had not left his cold boots and cape behind; it would be warmer without them.

Then he stopped, staring in surprise at the small bundle wrapped within the wet cloak. A dark-haired elfling, pale skin white with cold and eyes tightly closed. Elrond instantly held out his arms and Gildor automatically handed the child over. Spinning on his heel, the Elf Lord hurried back to the room that Bronsell had come out of moments before. The others followed, one of them helping to support Gildor who was stumbling slightly.

Elrond noted with approval out of the corner of his eye that a hot bath had already been drawn. He quickly stepped to the large bed and laid the elfling on it. He paused for less than a moment to take in the child's condition before he quickly started stripping off her frozen garments. He heard the others come in behind him and caught Lindtulin's eye. The Elf nodded and led Gildor to a chair. He relieved him of his frozen cape along the way and helped him pull off his sopping boots. Reassured that Inglorion was also being cared for, Elrond returned his attention to the small child in front of him.

He noted with distant surprise that she was well armed, although all the weapons were too large for her tiny frame. He laid the quiver, bow, and sword carefully aside; he would examine them for identifying markings later in an attempt to unravel the mystery that he had been abruptly presented with, for he doubted that Gildor would be capable of prolonged conversation until he had taken a few hours to rest and take nourishment. Elrond's sharp eye noted a curious leaf pattern on the over-large archer's bracers that were tightly cinched around the girl's thin wrists, but he did not take the time to try to identify it now. He would do that later, after he had cared for the child.

It was clear from her clothing that she had been a long time away from wherever she called home. Her dress was tattered and the bottom few inches had been sliced off smoothly although the edges were now frayed. Her clothing was stained with mud that had frozen into the cloth as winter set in, so she had obviously been wearing them prior to Fall's submission to Winter's frosts. There were scrapes and bruises on her hands and face as if she had scrambled and often fallen over hard terrain. As he pulled her frozen clothing off he saw that the minor injuries continued over the rest of her small body only to be concentrated in a dark, bloody gash across her right shoulder. It did not appear to be overly fresh, but it was coated with so much dried blood that he could no more make an accurate guess as to its age than he could to its severity. Her left knee was also scraped and bloody, although that appeared a more minor wound compared to the one on her shoulder.

Elrond had enough experience fighting the Shadow to know a wound from an orc scimitar when saw one. Whoever this child was, she had faced at least one orc, possibly more. The questions swirling in the Elf Lord's brain would have to wait, however; the girl needed attention.

He lifted the limp elfling and carried her to the steaming tub. Bronsell moved to assist him, but the girl was light enough that he could hold her easily in one arm as he checked the water temperature. He nodded approval to Bronsell for her quick thinking and together the two Elves gently eased the child into the warm water. Elrond could tell that Bronsell was worried; Elves are not generally affected by the cold and the last time anyone in Imladris had needed care for hypothermia had been many years ago when two very young elflings had decided that simply because the snow was taller than they were was no reason to not go swimming. Those two elflings had been Elladan and Elrohir—of course—and they had both been awake and shivering when they ran home to get warm. Elrond had been furious, but not excessively worried for them.

Bronsell, while her memory was quite capable of recalling every bit of that instance, had never cared for someone truly in danger from the cold before and she was anxious. The Elf Lord spared her a reassuring glance and she relaxed slightly to see that he was calm. She was young enough and new enough to Imladris's healing wings not to know that Elrond was _always _calm when someone needed healing. However, worried as he was for the small elfling in front of them—the fact that her eyes were closed was not a good sign at all—Elrond was confident that as long as nothing unforeseen arose they would soon have her on the road to recovery.

"Gildor," Elrond spoke quietly, his attention still centered on the elfling in the water, "do you feel up to relating in brief the reason why I have a young, unfamiliar Elf half frozen in my arms?"

"Ay, my lord—" he began groggily, then stiffened and sat up in alarm. "Why did Glorfindel not tell you?"

Elrond exchanged a glance with Erestor but the advisor shook his head. As far as he knew, the Gondolin Elf had not returned to Imladris…and Glorfindel was hard to miss. Elrond's frown deepened. Something was definitely amiss here.

"Glorfindel has not come back," the Elf Lord said calmly.

"What?" Gildor exclaimed, actually leaping off his seat. "Then where is he?"

"We were rather hoping that perhaps you would tell us."

…………….

A grouping of trees had protected a small area from the blizzard, and what snow had reached through the leaves had been largely swept into the underbrush by the recent winds. Spotting a conveniently drier location between two pines, Glorfindel sighed and whispered for Kelwioor to stop. The horse snorted, showing her displeasure with his command, but did as she was bid. The Elf had wanted to ride through the night, but the elfling in his arms had begun shivering violently and he knew that much as he needed to get him to Elrond with haste, right now he needed to warm him more.

It had taken the Gondolin Elf far longer to dig the second elfling out than he had anticipated. The boy's boots had been frozen to the rock, and Glorfindel had had to chip away at the ice carefully to avoid injuring the small feet. The Elf judged that the child had stepped in a puddle sometime, and that when the elflings had stopped for the night neither had thought to make a fire to thaw the shoes so they had frozen where he lay. He could see frantic marks in the ice, and a few cuts that had gone through to draw blood, from where one of the children—probably the girl—had tried to cut him free. Likely, Glorfindel thought to himself as he gathered wood for a fire, it had been the day of that harsh blizzard that had driven even he and Gildor to seek what shelter they could find in a shallow cave. The elflings must have been buried by the falling snow, and had simply fallen asleep from the cold in an attempt to preserve what heat their small bodies had. Glorfindel was no healer, but that alone worried him. The fact that the boy's feet had been wet worried him even more. It was rare for Elves to get frostbite, but not entirely impossible, especially when they were young and already taxed by elements and strain. He remembered the Helkaraxe and the crossing of the Grinding Ice…

Glorfindel shook his head to clear the memories from it and returned to the task at hand. The fire started, he pulled the elfling from his perch on Kelwioor's back and thanked the horse. Kelwioor snorted and tossed her head at him before wandering off to find somewhere to roll. She would not stray far, and would return when he whistled for her. Glorfindel grinned as he carried the elfling to the fire. His steed was showing her displeasure with his desire to make camp; she wanted to keep running and get back to Imladris where there were warm stables and soft hay waiting for her. Kelwioor liked adventure as much as he did, but she appreciated the finer things in life as well.

Glorfindel settled himself cross-legged by the warm blaze and put the elfling in his lap. The boy was still sound asleep, and his eyes were still closed; even without having spent so long in Imladris, Glorfindel would have known that for a bad sign. He gently unwrapped his cloak from around the child and began rubbing his small hands, trying to keep the blood flowing freely. He wished distantly that Elrond were here, but there was no use fretting over that. Judging that the waterskin he had placed by the blaze had warmed enough, Glorfindel quickly untied the stiff laces of the elfling's half-frozen, half-thawed boots. He poured the hot liquid over the tiny feet, taking the soft murmuring and squirming as a good sign. It was a pity that he could not immerse the boy's feet, but he had no vessel in which to do so.

Glorfindel had learned quite a bit about cold from the Crossing. He was no healer and he never would be, but the Gondolin Elf had lived long enough—both times—to have become adept in certain practices. He could pull arrows, set most bones, stitch cuts—they were ugly stitches, but they worked—and he could definitely treat the ailments of cold weather. Granted, it had been Ages since he had needed to, but he still remembered most of what he had picked up. He was worried for the elfling, but not unduly so. Of course, there were those—like Erestor—who said that Glorfindel was _never _unduly worried, but the fact remained that while the child was in danger he was relatively certain that it was not extremely life-threateningly dire. Probably not, at least.

Glorfindel set the soft boots as close to the fire as he dared, hoping that they would be completely dry before dawn. He wrapped the elfling back up in his cloak and settled the child back in his lap. The necessities taken care of, the Balrog-slayer settled down to _think_.

Some might tell you that Glorfindel never thought, but merely charged in with a grin to whatever situation presented itself. But contrary to appearances, the Gondolin Elf actually spent a great deal of time pondering things. He just liked pondering more when he was running through the trees or racing around on a horse or sparring with a partner or hunting orcs than when he was sitting still in some library or study. Sitting still could drive Glorfindel to distraction. He could be patient when he needed to be, but when patience delayed action that he had decided needed to be taken, Glorfindel swiftly became twitchy. Not right now though; right now it was time to ponder, and with the elfling needing to be kept warm in the Elf's dry lap rather than set on cold snow, he had to sit while he thought.

_Greenwood,_ Glorfindel eventually decided._ It does not make sense; he has not the hair, nor if I am perfectly truthful the facial features, of a Silvan Elf—but his garb definitely marks him of Greenwood the Great. What an elfling this small is doing so far from home, with none but another child, is another matter._ Glorfindel frowned. There was something he was missing, he was sure of it. _Lothlórien_? he thought tentatively. The child might have simply been _visiting_ Greenwood with his kin…Glorfindel dismissed that line of reasoning. He had only seen the other child briefly, but she was certainly of pure Silvan descent.

The Balrog-slayer narrowed his grey eyes and stared into the fire, deep in thought. He unconsciously started toying with the child's hair, so uncannily akin to the shade of his own. Paler, but not by much; they had the same bright golden hue…_ Golden_, Glorfindel repeated to himself. _Why does that word strike a chord_…

A memory flared before Glorfindel's eyes; Oropher of Greenwood, golden hair shinning, cut down beneath a sea of blades as Gil-galad quivered in rage and anger both at the foul orcs and at the headstrong king.

The Gondolin Elf's eyes snapped open. _Oropher! _That was it—Oropher, and his son Thranduil, had both possessed brilliant golden hair. The Balrog-slayer remembered being able to always spot them from a distance as the Last Alliance warred with Sauron; two small specks of gold amidst a darker mass of green, brown…and black.

He studied the elfling's face closely, searching for something to prove his guess. At first, he could see nothing in the delicate face to remind him of either headstrong Oropher or his equally stubborn son, Thranduil, but then the child shifted in his arms. Yes; there was that defiant chin. And now that he a familiar reference, he could pick out other traces of the child's ancestry. Thranduil's high cheekbones and thin face; the long, ever-so-slightly hawk-like nose of Oropher, commanding profile now marred with an adorable tilt at the very end. The child murmured in his sleep and Glorfindel grinned. Those eyebrows could _only _belong to Thranduil's son. The Gondolin Elf had been among those who swore that Thranduil had not needed that commanding voice of his at all; the expressions he could summon with the faint twist of an eyebrow were descriptive enough to give his people their orders.

Then Glorfindel frowned. All right; he had determined that the child must be Thranduil's son. (He would have to mention to Elrond that they really needed to reform lines of communication with Greenwood. If they had not even known that Thranduil had taken a wife and had a child—or more?—then they were decidedly lacking in their contacts.) But how and why was the child wandering along and half-dead in the Misty Mountains, so far from home with none but another elfling for company? What had _happened_ in Greenwood? A chill that had nothing to do with the winter trickled down Glorfindel's spine. Something had gone horribly wrong, and he feared what it might mean for—

The twice-born Elf glanced into the shadows of the trees and stiffened. Moving with agonizing slowness he shifted the bundle in his arms so that the child was lying on the ground. Long, slim fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. Slowly shifting so that his feet were under him, ready to spring upright, Glorfindel listened hard to the silence of the night. He could hear the trees rustling faintly in the almost non-existent wind and the small chatter of nocturnal life…but not as much life as there should have been. Pursing his lips, Glorfindel whistled softly, the light call of a bird blending with the night. His sharp ears picked out Kelwioor coming towards him at his signal.

Glorfindel tensed, gently easing his sword inch by inch from its sheathe, and waited…

…………….

Elrond was silent as he tucked the small elfling securely under the heavy covers. He had already given instruction that someone sit with her at all times, and that the stones tucked in the blankets be periodically taken out and exchanged for others that were currently warming by the hearth. If she awoke, someone was to fetch him immediately, although he did not think that likely. He would come by to relieve Bronsell in a few hours, but for now he had to sort out his thoughts. In the morning, when Gildor had recovered from his hard ride, he would be able to speak with him again, although he doubted that there was much more that the Elf could tell him.

Elrond nodded to the healer and left the room silently. He was carrying the child's weapons; her clothing was drying by the fire although it was doubtful that much of it would be wearable again. But they were clues right now, and right now the Lord of Imladris had far too many questions and far too few explanations.

Chief among them, the whereabouts and circumstances of Glorfindel. The Gondolin Elf was an accomplished rider, and his steed one of the swiftest Elrond had yet seen that did not bear relation to the Mearas. There was no reason for Gildor to have returned and not Glorfindel—no reason that did not bespeak some ill fate or chance. Yet Glorfindel had a remarkable knack for emerging unscathed; even from death he had returned. Nothing would have convinced Glorfindel to willing prolong the second elfling's journey to Imladris…

So where _was _Glorfindel, and why did Elrond have a sinking suspicion that the answer was going to be worse even than the darkest thoughts now worrying his mind?

…………….

The dark cloaked figure stared long at the broken body before him before kneeling by it. A thin hand swaddled in ragged cloth emerged from the robes to lightly caress the bloody cheek, now cold and still. Idly, the figure wrapped its bandaged fingers through the silken, blood-wetted hair of the Elf's corpse.

"Mae govannen, mellon nin," the twisted being whispered mockingly to the silent body that had previously housed the now-departed _fëa _of Aglarmegil. The figure took a thin blade from the folds of its dark robes. The graceful knife had once belonged to a warrior of Greenwood, but he was long-dead.

The twisted creature smoothly sliced one of the thin braids from the corpse's head with the sharp edge of its blade. It ran the still dripping strands through its fingers then paused to stare at the blood on its hands.

With a low, hissing chuckle, the figure smiled.

* * *

_Oooh look, more cliffiness! Um, please don't kill me? Remember, dead authors can't write...thank you... psst, Glerfindle! Hide me!_

**Reviewer Responses:**

**Deana –** you are indeed. And thank you.

**Alma –** oh good, thanks. And what can I say, I'm detail-obsessed… Will do!

**East Coastie1500 –** Cloaked person, huh? Was there a cloaked person in this story? Heh. As for the elflings…well, you've seen a bit that should…er, maybe relieve you…

**Laiquendi –** Why thank you. Oh, you mean _that _cloaked figure? My my, aren't we suspicious… Orc-shaped, eh? Aheheheheheh…ahem. Yes, well… ;)

**Aranna –** _tsk_, you would think I had some mysterious cloaked figure in this story from these reviews, wouldn't you? Gwaebeth or Tauranor, hmm? Well, I'd love to say you were getting warm…but I couldn't give away its identity yet with a hint like that, now could I? :)

_Anyway, sorry there was no update this week-end. You would not _believe_ the crap that showed up…ugh. First, due to being off on MLKJr Day, the college scheduled make-up classes Friday, thus turning the normal three-day studio work week-end into a two day one, throwing everyone's schedules off…especially me! Then my internet decided to die…I don't know what I did! :( But I can't get Explorer to come back, so I'm dealing with msn right now…I wish I were more computer-savvy…and then, the lovely color theory teacher has decided that it's time to study_ color wheels!_ Let's paint lots of little squares and glue them in progressing lines of tints and shades! Oh, goody. Somebody pinch me, I must be dreaming… Anyway, I'm not complaining, I'm just explaining why updates aren't going to be quick this week—I'm still trying to catch up from a short week-end with lots of mind-numbing work of which half a day was spent fighting with my computer. So yeah, apologies, and I'll try to get back on the ball by next week and get some more written. Cheers!_


	17. Orcs

**This chapter is dedicated to Aranna Undomiel, with my thanks and apologies for somehow overlooking her name when I was typing up thank-you's. **

_Hey guys! Hope I got this one out at a reasonable pace. I literally just finished it, but I'm going to start the next one as soon as I finish posting this, so hopefully I'll get back on track now and finish playing catch-up. But **yay** I have a story finished! Okay, so it's not this one(I'm working, I'm workin!), but still, it's an accomplishment! :) Okay, back to _this_ story. Enjoy!_

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Chapter Seventeen: Orcs

Orcs. Why does it always have to orcs?

It was not that he _wanted _to fight a Balrog again—Valar, no! But really, _orcs? _They were just so…ordinary. It wasn't even orcs on Wargs, or orcs with a troll in the background, or even a few Uruks mixed in for diversity's sake—just plain, ordinary orcs. Unorganized and unwashed, filthy, foul, angry little creatures. Glorfindel sighed; couldn't he, just once, face an _interesting _foe? He did not crave battle, but if he _had _to fight, couldn't it be something _interesting?_

The Balrog-slayer sighed and spun, neatly slicing the heads off of two orcs before dropping into a crouch to cut the ankles out from under another one that was trying to sneak past him. He leaned to the side and cleanly slit a fourth orc's throat before swinging gracefully back the other direction to impale a fifth. It had taken about as long as it did to blink. Which was what the orcs did next, exchanging worried glances with one another as they hesitated, staring at this strange and speedy Elf who was looking at them almost as if he were…bored?

Glorfindel did not understand the Black Speech, but if he had he still would not have known what the orcs were referring to when they called him _gold-head-slaughter-son_. He had never known of Thranduil's nickname, and would likely not have grasped the intimation anyway. Instead, a slight smile on his otherwise expressionless face, the Gondolin Elf watched patiently as the orcs muttered and argued among themselves, never taking their eyes off his fair and deadly face.

The orcs did not like this Elf. There was something strange about him. They had quickly realized that it was not their hated _gold-head-slaughter-son_, but they were beginning to think that he might be as dangerous as Thranduil. His eyes did not flash with the burning wrath that they associated with the king of Greenwood, but neither were his eyes like that of other Elves. There was something…the orcs could not place it, but it unnerved them.

And when an orc does not understand something, there are really only two options. When that something is an Elf, there is only _one_: kill it. Once something is dead, it no longer matters if it is confusing. Besides, right now this strange Elf, swift sword or not, was all that was keeping them from their assigned prey of the princeling. Get rid of the taller gold-one, and the little one would be all theirs to take back to Master unhindered. They wondered where the small dark, deadly one was at, but not overly. They were focused on their prey.

Glorfindel had been idly cleaning his sword while the orcs debated. He had decided to let them come to him rather than charge. That way he was less likely to be separated from the elfling he was protecting. And if the orcs decided to turn tail and run—well, that would be disappointing but he could live with their cowardice if he had to. The twice-born Elf looked up as the orcs came to their decision.

They charged at him.

Glorfindel grinned.

……………

Elrond paused in the doorway and his worried frown smoothed into a gentle smile at the sight in front of him. The strange little elfling was lying bundled up beneath the covers so that her small face could just barely be seen peeking out at the top. Celebrían, his beloved wife, was sitting by her and humming softly to herself, gently stroking the child's forehead just as she did when either of the twins were once again injured. She looked beautiful in the soft firelight—she always looked beautiful—with the gentle glow dancing slowly in her long silken hair.

She looked up and smiled softly at him, her bright eyes sparking, as he came into the room. Now those starry pools were filled with compassion and concern. "She had not awakened," Celebrían said quietly in he always melodious voice as Elrond moved to join her by the bed. "Yet her skin is warmer and beginning to show life again."

Elrond nodded, agreeing with his wife's assessment; he nearly always did. Celebrían was not a healer, but she was extradordinarily perceptive and nearly as capable of reading another as her mother, Galadriel. Elrond would trust his beloved's insight sooner than all the lore of Imladris and Gondor combined. Her eyes showed no fear for the elfling's recovery; that more than the faint flush of her cheeks, the ease of her breathing, or the slight glimmer of eyes beneath no longer tightly closed lashes put the _peredhel's _mind at ease.

Elrond took his wife's hand in his own as he sat down next to her. "Awake at this hour, meltha?" he murmured teasingly.

Celebrían smiled. "I know you, my dear. When presented with a mystery you cannot sleep until you have solved it. This little one presents one such enigma; I know you would be returning."

"Then shall we attempt to solve this mystery, and thus enable sleep to come to us both this night?" he replied lightly.

Celebrían's eyes danced in the firelight. "Ay, meltha," she responded with a smile. "Let us seek for both answers and slumber."

Elrond studied what little he could see of the elfling's features closely. The paleness of her face was accentuated by the dark locks that framed her face—and by the thin scrapes and bruises that marred her skin. She had traveled difficult roads, and for a long time, too, as the gauntness of her thin cheeks evidenced. He remembered the wound on her shoulder; as the dried blood had flaked away in the warm water, Elrond had determined that it was definitely made by an orc's blade. It was also healed enough that he knew it was roughly a week old, perhaps more.

The Elf Lord turned to stare at the tattered clothing hung by the fire. The hem was frayed, the cloth of the skirt worn and ragged from climbing, and it was all dusted with mud, as well as stains of both berries and blood—Elf and orc. The latter black liquid was repeated on her blades, dried but not so old as those in Imladris would perhaps hope it to be.

Grey eyes narrowed in thought as Elrond began fashioning a hypothesis. Orcs must have slain the elflings' parents and companions, or at least driven the children away from them. It was obvious that they had encountered orcs on their own and likely they had been fleeing from foul pursuit for some time.

He looked back at Celebrían and arched an eyebrow. She smiled and nodded agreement. "Ay," she said softly, "long enough to have crossed all the distance from Greenwood the Great."

Elrond glanced back at the child's garb. Ah, so that was the origin of that leaf-pattern he had noticed earlier. He ought to have recognized it, but then it had been many years since he had encountered and Elf of Greenwood. Following the fall of Sauron Greenwood had retreated within its borders to heal and mourn alone. Yet Lórien was close enough to the forest kingdom that Celebrían would have grown up familiar enough with Oropher's people to instantly recognize their designs.

So, they had two children of Greenwood—one here, the other with Glorfindel in circumstances unknown; if the Gondolin Elf did not arrive by morning, Elrond would send out search parties—two children pursued all the way to Imladris. Elrond frowned as he stared intently at the unconscious girl. While the Elf Lord's foresight was silent, he nonetheless had a sinking suspicion that things had just become far more complicated…

……………

Consciousness returned painfully and incomplete. The darkness of oblivion was warm and comfortable, and he longed to sink back into it, but some sense murmured through the muffling blackness speaking of danger and threat. It felt as if the weight of a mountain was pulling him back under—but Thranduil's son had inherited the family stubbornness.

The elfling forced his eyes open. Cold and pain hit him first and, shivering violently, he gasped and nearly retreated. Biting his lip hard enough to break through chapped skin, he determinedly held on to foggy awareness. Heavy-lidded blue eyes blinked, trying to bring the world into focus.

Through the haziness of half-consciousness, Legolas gradually formed a tentative impression of his surroundings. Then fear jolted adrenaline through his small form as the harsh cries of _yrch _penetrated his ears. The spurt of energy snapped a moment of clarity through dull eyes, and he saw a strong golden figure standing against the blackness.

"Ada," he whispered, tears springing to his eyes. A glow of happiness spread warmth through the young prince, temporarily stilling his shivering. His ada was here! Legolas blinked furiously, trying to bring the fuzzy image before him into focus, but it remained blurred and indistinct.

Then he saw his father stumble ever so slightly on the form of a fallen foe, and one _orch _made it past his guard to slip around behind him. Legolas's numb fingers scrabbled at his belt before the child had processed the danger. Then his stiff hand curled around a smooth hilt and he rose to shaky knees.

His father's blade was occupied with three _yrch _in front of him and could not detach to reach the _orch _behind in time. Legolas bit his lip again and watched anxiously as Fuiniel's borrowed knife flew true to stick firm in the _orch's _throat. Legolas smiled.

"Ada," the elfling breathed softly as darkness once more claimed him.

……………

Glorfindel ducked, then paused in confusion. He was certain that there had been another orc behind him, blade starting to swing, but nothing had whistled over his head. _Strange_, he thought detachedly as he started moving just in time to avoid being impaled on another's jagged weapon. The Balrog-slayer sidestepped his attacker and kicked it away. Then he swiveled and spun his gleaming sword back through layers of heavy armor and stinking flesh. A look of mild distaste on his otherwise implacable face, the Elf Lord dodged a spray of sticky black blood and twisted within another strike to drive his blade into a new orc's gut. He pulled the sword free as he spun the other direction, and an orc that had been lunging at him impaled its fellow instead. The twice-born Elf sighed. These orcs were hardly worth the effort.

Another few swift strikes and it was over, the survivors fleeing the scene of battle. Letting them run sat ill with the Elf Lord, but he knew that he could not afford to hunt them down now. The elfling needed to be taken to Imladris and quickly. Chasing down the foul rabble would have to wait, painful as that decision was to make. He disliked leaving things unfinished, and when those things happened to involve battles with orcs it was not a matter of dislike so much as it was a matter of safety and duty. Still, there was nothing he could do about it now, so there was no sense in worrying unnecessarily. Leave that task to Erestor, the advisor was good at it.

Glorfindel calmly cleaned his blackened blade on a scrap of rough cloth as Kelwioor cantered up beside him. The horse snorted derisively and Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. "If the activities that I get up to when you are not around to deter me distress you, I suggest that in future you do not go so far when hunting for snacks," he informed the mare coolly. She tossed her head and whickered; he would have to do better than that if he wanted to impress her.

Glorfindel grinned and brushed his long hair out of his eyes as he went to go check on the elfling. Then he frowned; the child was sprawled limply on the ground, not at all how he had left him. Remembering an anomaly during the battle, the Balrog-slayer turned back to the corpses littering the ground behind him. His sharp eyes searched for only a moment before they spotted what he sought.

He had been correct; there _had _been an orc behind him. The Gondolin Elf yanked a long white knife from the foul corpse's throat. _Well, well, well, _he thought with a grin, _the elfling certainly has most good aim or very good luck_. _That throw was right on target. _He wiped the blood from the knife then tucked it in his belt. Scooping the child up in his arms and cloak again, Glorfindel kicked the fire out. While he would have preferred to have the child spend a few more hours by the blaze, if there were orcs around he decided it better to risk the cold and ambush than to wait for them to return. _At least his boots are warm and dry now_, he thought with a shrug. Making sure that the elfling was as warmly bundled as he could, Glorfindel swung smoothly onto his mount. He scanned the sky. If he rode hard and ran in to no further delay, he ought to make Imladris only a few hours after morning.

Hopefully Elrond would not have sent out the search parties by then.

Glorfindel grimaced. He suddenly realized that he would have to tell Lord Elrond about the orcs, which would in turn lead to Erestor learning about them, which would thus, in its turn, lead to Erestor being insufferable for a good long time. Glorfindel _hated _when Erestor was right.

_Why_ did it have to be _orcs?_

_

* * *

_

**Reviewer Responses:**

**Deana –** no, no snow._ sigh! _Snowless in Savannah… :( If anyone has any extra they want to send my way, that'd be neat…

**Alma –** Thank you, very much, on both counts! I hope you enjoy my depiction of Imladris.

**East Coastie1500 –** well good, I'm glad you're relieved. What! Me, sarcastic? No! Never! Really? Huh. Go figure—I didn't know I was sarcastic… But speaking of sarcasm, _oh_ those color wheels are _such _fun…

**Laiquendi –** Thank you! Gotta love the Twins. And I now am picturing Glorfindel in one of those brown plaidish hats with a pipe in his mouth rubbing his chin and generally trying to look knowledgeable. It's not working. As for "Mister Cloaked Figure"…what would be the fun if I told you that?

**Badger Luver – **"Bar miffken?" Is that German? Aw…here, have a tissue. Thank you; I'm so glad I've gotten your emotions involved…even if you are crying…another tissue? Um, yes, well…don't mind me if I go run for my life now…love you forever too…bye!

**Aranna – **Bwahahaha! Hey, at least I'm being humorous while I'm being cruel, no? And good job. _Rhys pats Aranna on the shoulder, too_. Eat, eat—food is good! Just…um, well, I don't know. I mean, I've been known to postpone eating for reading, too. Although I usually try and combine the two—which leads to not really tasting what you're eating, but sometimes that can be a plus… Fresh air! Gods, I miss that concept. Ooh, Savannah paper-mill stench, yummy. Ick; you know your air sucks when a girl from PA complains—apparently we're one of the most heavily polluted states, who'd have figured? Ah well; good luck surviving! Death would be a bad thing, let's avoid that…outside the story, at least. ;)

**Sadie Elfgirl –** Yay, I lured a lurker out! _happy dance! _Oh, but I just got a dirty look. Bad author! _slaps herself._ Now I feel really bad…oh wait, no I don't. I'm evil, I forgot. As the Mistress of Evil, I cannot feel bad about being bad! Hee hee! Insanity is _such _fun Sadie, trust me! :) And thanks for all the compliments, I'm really glad that you've been enjoying it!

**Kirsten –** yay, thank you! Welcome. Sorry it took so long!

_Well, Glorfindel's Holmes-stint seemed to go over well; let me know what you think of Elrond's detective work. ;) Seriously, guys, I'm sorry about the wait. I just had so much crap to do this week, catching up from having a short week-end, that I've been doing homework every spare moment until now. Finally, the week-end is here (a full three-day weekend this time, as it should be) and I can write! I'll try not to leave you hanging._

_Also,_ Exploring Darkness _is done now, and I'm working up another one. If anyone wants to help out a poor pathetic author who can't come up with good names, I'd really appreciate it! I need a name for this city—if you want to help you can dance over to my homepage for more info. I'll dedicate the first chapter to whoever comes up with the name I end up using, how's that for bribery? I looooove yoooou!_ :D


	18. Healing

I'm really sorry about the lack of update-goodness, everybody. They really dropped a load on us this week, but I think I've finally managed to get on top of things again. I'll try not to leave you hanging like that again, really! However, updates may be slower for a bit, as I have nothing written ahead and am trying to work out all the mind-breaking details of the Fourth Age for my other story while at the same time searching for info about the early Third for this one…so that's been interesting. But yeah, I'm back. And unless something really nasty and Melkor-worthy attacks, there should be another update this week-end. So accept my apologies and enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Eighteen: Healing

Fuiniel waded through shadows. She was used to this; it was safer than allowing her thoughts to wander into memory when she slept. But somehow these shadows felt heavier, darker, harder to escape. She frowned, trying to sense the world around her, but it was difficult. Things were soft and muffled and she felt vaguely cold. And she could not hear the trees, either—but something was wrong aside from that. There was…cold, danger…snow…and _yrch!_

Fuiniel twisted and grimaced, fighting her way to consciousness. She had to awaken, there was danger! The child writhed against the dark shadows clouding her mind. Pain shook her form, but she refused to sink back into warm oblivion. She had to wake up, she had to wake up, she had to…

Fuiniel's eyelids fluttered. A soft hand smoothed her brow, and the child froze. "Nana?" she whispered and started to shake. Icy fingers wrapped themselves around her heart and with a cry she wrenched herself away from the gentle, painful touch.

The child curled up into herself on a corner of the large bed as her dark eyes snapped open. She stared around like a cornered wild animal, trembling. Two strange Elves stared at her in surprise. One was stern of face, a grave Elf Lord, with dark hair pulled back from his face by a thin silver circlet. His eyebrows were drawn close together in a stern expression and his grey eyes had an unnerving power in their firm, piercing gaze. The other was a fair Lady with pale silver hair that hung loose around her face and reached below the edge of the bed. Her eyes were soft and she was smiling kindly. Fuiniel shivered and drew away from that kindly smile; it frightened her.

It _reminded _her.

The child's eyes darkened and she glared at the strange Elves. She clenched her hands to stop their trembling, not wanting to show weakness—she feared that it might invite something that she could not deal with. Determinedly the elfling turned away from the Lady and fixed a cold glare on the Lord.

"Who are you?" she asked. Her voice was faint and raspy and she forced the words out through a painfully dry throat, but she did not lessen the intensity of her dark stare for all that her voice was weak.

The Lord smiled at her encouragingly and she drew further away from him until she was perched on the very edge of the large bed, with its entirety between her small, curled form and the two frighteningly kindly-looking Elves. "I am Elrond of Imladris," he replied in strangely-accented Sindarin. "This is my wife, Lady Celebrían." He indicated the Lady but Fuiniel refused to look at her, keeping her sharp eyes fixed firmly on the Lord Elrond. "What is your name, child?"

Fuiniel ignored him and glared. "Where is Legolas?" she rasped firmly.

The Lord glanced at the Lady, although Fuiniel was careful not to follow his look. "Your companion?" he inquired. Fuiniel nodded sharply, gaze never flickering from his face. "He is not yet arrived," he said and something inside Fuiniel twisted chillingly. "Our friend the Lord Glorfindel is bringing him, and they will no doubt be here soon. Worry not, child." Fuiniel's eyes narrowed suspiciously as the Elf Lord continued. "You need rest yet, and warm drink and food." He offered a friendly smile that was supposed to be endearing, but Fuiniel drew back from the offer of kindness. She shook her head firmly.

"At the least tell us your name, child," the Lady spoke softly with a fair musical cadence. Her voice was gentle. Fuiniel trembled and kept her eyes firmly elsewhere. She did not respond; she had to ignore that voice—that kindness—or else…

Fuiniel edged backwards and, staring at the two Elves like a deer at bay, carefully started to slip out of the bed. Her legs trembled at the strain of supporting her weight but she forced herself to stand upright. The room tilted slightly and she dug her fingernails into her palms to distract herself from the spinning as her vision grayed slightly at the edges. She drew in her breath with a hiss but made no other motion.

The two Elves, on the other hand, had leapt to their feet when she stood. Fuiniel cast her eyes down at the floor, away from the dangerous, kind Lady. The Lord caught her arm and she realized when he steadied her that she had been swaying slightly. She tried to pull away but he held her firmly.

"I am a healer, child," he said in a voice that was warm and chill at the same time. "You are in no shape to do anything but rest right now." He lifted her easily although she struggled and deposited her back on the bed. He drew the covers up and tucked them around her firmly, pressing down on either side so that she could not extricate herself. Pinned beneath the heavy blankets, Fuiniel could only glare at him.

The Elf Lord sighed and murmured something to the Lady, but the world was growing hazy and Fuiniel could not catch the words. She struggled weakly against the covers but unconsciousness was hovering too closely at the edges of her awareness for her to fight it off. Darkness once more stole over its Daughter and oblivion claimed Fuiniel yet again…

…………….

"Yes, Erestor."

"I _knew _they should have taken a guard with them…"

"Yes, Erestor."

"Why you ever allowed him to go off practically on his own I shall never understand…"

"Yes, Erestor."

"Those rumors about orcs, my lord…"

"Yes, Erestor."

"One would think that someone who has lived since the First Age would have a better sense of respect for the dangers Middle-earth poses…"

"Yes, Erestor."

"But you know how reckless he can be, my lord…"

"Yes, Erestor."

"And after all, my lord, what is one to expect, really, from someone like—"

Elrond held up a hand to silence his advisor and paused in the hallway. Erestor ceased speaking although his face clearly showed what he thought about being interrupted in the midst of his recitation of complaints about Glorfindel—especially when he had only just been getting started. Elrond's eyes narrowed as he listened closely.

Then the Lord of Imladris hurried through the halls—it would have been called a run if he hadn't been so dignified about his fast pace—Erestor scurrying (dignifiedly, of course) on his heels. They stopped at the main door to the Healing House and stared in shock at the white figure that came galloping into the yard. Erestor gave a heavy sigh and muttered something that involved the Valar, in particular Mandos, unfair punishments, and Balrogs. Elrond chose to ignore his advisor and focus on the exceptionally snow-covered figure that leapt from an exceptionally snow-covered horse and bounded quickly up the now exceptionally snow-covered steps.

"Lord Elrond!" Glorfindel exclaimed, "has Gildor returned?" The Gondolin Elf hardly waited for a nod—certainly not for a verbal answer—before rushing past Imladris's Lord and dashing down the hallway. "Excellent news," he shouted over his shoulder. Then, "hurry my lord, I fear this little one is almost gone."

Elrond spun quickly, only now noticing that beneath Glorfindel's exceptionally snow-covered cloak there was a small, rather snow-covered bundle that could only be the absent elfling. Legolas or something of that sort, he believed, from the few words the girl had spoken when she had woke a few hours previously. The _peredhel _hurried to join Glorfindel and signaled for Erestor to send for assistance. The advisor nodded and sped away down the hallway to do so.

Glorfindel was pulling the elfling's boots off as Elrond entered. The Elf Lord quickly joined him and started tugging at the frozen clasp of the small child's cloak. _Elbereth, _Elrond thought to himself, _this little one is even smaller than Arwen._ He felt for a pulse and was distressed that his sensitive fingers could feel nothing. He looked at Glorfindel but the Gondolin Elf just shook his head grimly. Elrond grimaced; he had a feeling that he was going to be in for a difficult fight.

Discarding the elfling's snow-covered, frozen clothing haphazardly on the floor the two Elf Lords quickly bundled the child into thick blankets. Elrond sat down as close to the fire as he dared—nearly in the hearth—and tucked the elfling into his lap. Glorfindel knelt at his side and started rubbing the child's ankles and feet in an effort to help circulation. Elrond did the same with the child's neck and shoulders. He felt like ice and the _peredhel's _face grew grim.

"We need to warm him inside," Elrond said tersely. "Erestor," he started, before remembering that he had already sent the advisor to seek help. "Glorfindel," he commanded, "the chamber next door—fetch a cup of tea."

He did not need to tell the other to hurry; Glorfindel was out of the room almost before he had finished speaking. In a moment wet footprints were the only sign of his passing. Within a few more moments, the dripping Elf was back, carefully struggling to sprint without spilling the steaming tea from its delicate cup. "Here," he thrust the beverage at Elrond who cradled the elfling's head in his arms and carefully tipped a few drops down the child's throat. He gently coaxed the rest of the hot drink into the child and discarded the cup. Glorfindel returned to his crouch and began massaging the elfling's legs again. Elrond lowered his ear to the elfling's mouth but could detect no stir of the air from breathing. He cursed to himself then drew a deep breath. He pressed his mouth over the elflings and pinched his nose shut, breathing air into the child's lungs. The Elf Lord was dimly aware of Glorfindel cursing as well; the Balrog-slayer roughly stirred the fire making it spark and leap in the hearth. Steam was coming off the Gondolin Elf's wet clothing but the child showed no hint of noticing the warmth.

Elrond paused to check for a pulse again, but could feel nothing. He turned at the sound of hurried footsteps to see Lindtulin hurry into the room, being careful not to spill the pot of warm tea he was carrying. He handed a cup off to Elrond, who gently managed to coax most of it down the elfling's throat before he started coughing. Elrond breathed a faint sigh of relief at that; it was a sign of life he had been hoping for. He handed the cup back to Lindtulin, who hurried away to find a towel with which to dry the now-melting snow from the child's hair. He offered a second one to Glorfindel when he returned, but the Balrog-slayer ignored it just as he was ignoring the puddle growing around him as his clothes slowly thawed out.

"Lindtulin, more tea," Elrond said tersely, setting aside the now-sopping towel.

"Here, my lord." The other Elf quickly held out a fresh cup. Elrond carefully poured a few drops down the child's throat, massaging his neck until he swallowed. The elfling gasped weakly then coughed a few times before his breathing settled down to normal, albeit slightly strained. The _peredhel _relaxed; while the child was not yet out of danger, the fact that he was breathing more or less freely was a great relief. He checked for a pulse, and while it was weak and thready it was there. He sighed; the child lived.

Elrond glanced up at Glorfindel and raised his eyebrows. "You," the Elf Lord said calmly, "are late."

Glorfindel just grinned.

…………….

"Where are you going?"

The girl jumped and spun around to stare with wild eyes at Gildor Inglorion. Her hand unconsciously reached to her back as if to pull a weapon and she frowned when her fingers encountered nothing. She did not answer him; merely drew back against the wall and glared.

The Imladris Elf had been watching the girl while Elrond tended their new patient. One of the healers could have done so, but Gildor felt responsible for the child. After all, he had been the one to bring her here; he wanted to see her recover from her ordeal. Gildor had been half-dozing in the fire-shaded darkness when the elfling, apparently not knowing he was there, must have awoken and attempted to slip from the room. Now she was pressed against the wall by the bed, a few feet from the open doorway she had been aiming for.

Gildor attempted a friendly smile but she showed no reaction unless it was to deepen her frown. "My name is Gildor," he said gently. "What is yours, child?"

She did not answer right away, as if she were deciding whether or not he was worth telling. Gildor shifted slightly in the chair, feeling vaguely uncomfortable under her glare. Such a fierce stare was worthy of Lord Elrond and should not be coming from the eyes of such a young child. "I am called Fuiniel," she said at last, baleful and cool.

"I…am pleased to see that you are feeling better, Fuiniel," Gildor said hopefully. "To be sure, you do look far better than when first I encountered you."

Fuiniel's grey eyes narrowed. "And how did I appear then?" she hissed.

Gildor's smile wavered but he held it steady after a moment. "Cold, still, and half-buried in snow," he answered truthfully. "To be honest, I feared that you might be beyond aid 'ere we could arrive."

"In Imladris?"

Gildor nodded. "Ay, in Imladris. 'Twas lucky that we were near here; the Lord Elrond is perhaps the best healer in all of Middle-earth, and you were well safe from danger in his hands."

Fuiniel's glare did not lessen and Gildor for a moment wondered if perhaps she knew no other expression. "And where is Legolas?" she asked sharply.

"The other elfling that was with you?"

"Ay. Where is he?" Her tone was highly suspicious and unfriendly.

"He is well," Gildor assured her. "The Lord Elrond is with him now, and he is out of danger. He will be well soon, fear not."

"Where is he?" she asked again firmly.

"Nearby—the next room, in fact. Do not worry, you will see him soon. But perhaps you would care to go back to bed now?" he inquired hopefully.

The child's glare, if it was possible, grew even harder. Gildor had a feeling that meant 'no.' He sighed; why had he volunteered to watch over her again? And had he not but recently promised himself that he would never listen to Lord Elrond again? Speaking of that, where _was _the Lord of Imladris? Should he not be the one here to handle this? But no; it was all left to him.

"You still need rest, Fuiniel. Lord Elrond said that you were not to leave your bed yet. Here, you ought to drink. Would you like some tea?" Gildor rose and poured a cup from the kettle on the hearth. When he turned around, Fuiniel had edged almost to the door. He grinned; this was like trying to keep Elrond's sons in their room—well, without the endless stream of logic and coercion. And with quite a lot of dark glaring. But aside from that…

"I wish to see Legolas," she said coldly.

Gildor shook his head. "You need to rest, child, you are barely standing on your feet. Come, back to bed, drink the tea. Then you can have some dinner—if that is the proper term for meals served past the moon's peak—and in the morning, Lord Elrond will see if you are well enough yet to get up and he will tell you how your companion fares." Gildor smiled hopefully. Fuiniel glared.

"I wish to see Legolas."

"Child, you are ready to fall over. Please, get back into bed and rest. In the morning…"

"I wish to see Legolas. Now."

Gildor sighed with exasperation. She was even more stubborn than the twins. "He is in no shape to see anyone right now, Fuiniel. The Lord Elrond is still tending him." While he spoke, Gildor was slowly moving closer to the girl. "I shall promise to have Elrond speak with you as soon as he is done, if you will promise me to get back into bed and drink the tea."

Fuiniel shot a glance towards the door, as if she was thinking about bolting for it. Then she glanced back towards Gildor, judging how close he was. She looked back towards the door, then sighed heavily. She cast a look dark enough to chill a wraith at the Elf as he gently took her arm and led her back to the bed. Gildor attempted to help her climb back into it, but the child shook his off brusquely. She coldly accepted the cup of tea but refused to speak—simply stared at his with dark eyes.

Gildor sighed and retreated back to his chair. Although he carefully did not look at her, but rather fixed his gaze on the moon and stars outside the terrace window, Gildor could feel the girl's fierce gaze unblinkingly focused on him as the night slowly, slowly passed.

…………….

Legolas stirred faintly in his sleep. A small hand edged out of the bed covers, searching. It met other fingers that were warm and soft and curled around his hand protectively. A faint smile crossed the child's face. "Ada," he breathed before sinking back into unconsciousness.

* * *

**Reviewer Responses:**

**Deana –** Doesn't the little guy just kill you? _sniff!_

**Laiquendi –** thank you, yes, we must have an occasional bit of orc-splattering to keep the mob satisfied. Although I suppose Glorfindel _would _complain…

**kel –** well, here he is! And Glorfindel says that he's most insulted at the insinuation that he is ever "silly." It is a foul lie, he tells me, spread by Erestor in revenge of some imagined slight.

**East Coastie1500 –** Art class fun…just not the dreaded Freshmen Fundamentals. Wait until I get to cool stuff, like Comic Book Pencilling and Computer Coloring and Storyboarding and cool stuff like that…then we'll be talking… But you say she's a _real _witch? Could she perhaps turn someone into a toad for me? That would be very cool.

**Aranna –** Happy birthday! I'm glad you're alive, and I apologize for disappearing for a bit. I'm so glad the last chapter was so well received in all its bits! Sanity…I remember that…I'm glad I got rid of it a long time ago… So let's see, we like sarcasm, sweetness, and lumps in throats…check. I'll see what I can do…

**SadieElfgirl –** Bwahahahaha! I am remorseless! And insane, yes yes yes! Why thank you, yes, Glorfindel is highly amusing. Especially when I accidentally type "Glerfindle" and find an irate mini-Balrog and an irate Elf Lord yelling at me… The Mistress of Evil thanks you, and hopes you enjoyed being tortured by this latest bit.

_Seriously, I really _am_ sorry. I'll try not to let it happen again. But thank you all for the reviews—if it helps, you make me feel horribly, horribly guilty:)_


	19. Painfully Kind

One hundred reviews! The fic hit **100 **reviews last chapter! Great big hugs to all of you who reviewed!

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Chapter Nineteen: Painfully Kind

Legolas opened sleepy eyes and blinked as the world came slowly into focus. He felt warm and comfortable, wrapped up heavily in thick blankets on a soft bed. The elfling luxuriated in the feel of both warmth and comfort; it had been long since he had had any blanket save his cloak and any bed save a friendly tree. Yawning widely, he sleepily tried to figure out where he was. The room he was in was dim, lit by a fire in the hearth and two candle on a table by the bed. A container of tea was warming by the blaze and its spicy scent mingled with that of snow and trees—but strange trees. They seemed younger and slighter than the great leafy towers of his home. And now that he thought about it, the room did not seem right, either. Perhaps it was only the glow of the fire, but the room seemed filled with golds and oranges, with green inexplicably absent. The intricate leaf-themed designs that curled around nearly every surface his people created were likewise non-existent. The room was still graceful, and still open to nature, with wide windows and a balcony behind a thin door—but it seemed separate, somehow. The trees did not curve around this building and cradle it with their branches, growing freely through the rooms. Rather, they stood next to it, shading and sheltering it—nearby, but separate. He frowned, puzzled—

Then realized that he was not alone. A soft hand held his comfortingly. Finding that moving required quite a bit more effort than he was used to having to exert, Legolas slowly turned his head to see who was keeping him company. The candlelight glowed softly on pale hair that splayed around the kind face of a sleeping Elf-woman. Legolas, blue eyes wide, reached out with his free hand as if to touch the fair locks of the figure slumped gracefully on the bed. Then he drew back and swallowed hard.

"Nana," he whispered softly, as if afraid that speaking any louder would break whatever delicate spell was woven around him. The elfling blinked suddenly wet eyes. "Nana…" he breathed again in a quavering voice. His fingers brushed the pale hair…

And broke the spell.

The Elf-woman sat up, woken by the light touch, and the illusion was shattered. She brushed long silver hair from her grey eyes and smiled gently, warmly—motherly—at the child. But not at _her _child; she was not his naneth. Legolas bit his lip and blinked furiously. He tasted blood but did not register that it was his own. The Elf-woman's face filled with distress and she gently stroked his cheek.

"Little one, what is wrong?" she asked softly, eyes kind.

Legolas sobbed and turned away.

……………

Glorfindel shook his head, sending water spraying everywhere, and dragged a comb quickly through his long hair. It had taken a scalding bath, but finally the Gondolin Elf was warm again. He smiled wryly to himself; had he not once said that he had no problem with cold as long as he did not have to deal with heat? Trust the Valar to find amusement in making him eat those words… He rolled his eyes with a grin. Now here was Glorfindel of Gondolin, Balrog-slayer and twice-born, sitting on the hearth and wondering just how close he dared edge to that comfortable fire. He could not help it; the irony was just too much. Glorfindel burst out laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

He looked up when he practically heard Elrond raise an eyebrow in the doorway. Schooling his face into a more-or-less serious expression, Glorfindel waved an arm to invite the _peredhel _into his chambers. Elrond nodded thanks and, a slightly amused look on his face, turned one of the chairs so that it faced the hearth better and sat. Glorfindel shrugged, smiled, and shook his head. Elrond sighed and rolled hie eyes; whatever questions he had been about to ask now abandoned.

Glorfindel decided that while it was warm, the hearth was really not the most comfortable place to sit and quickly joined Elrond in one of the room's elegant chairs that were carefully positioned a little bit further form the fireplace than they were in most rooms. Glorfindel thought it a quite comfortable distance, and had never desired to sit any closer—until today, when he practically sat _in _the fire. Shaking his head again, the Balrog-slayer discarded those thoughts and turned a (more) serious eye to his companion.

Elrond's half-smile vanished into his serious "healer-loremaster-you're-in-trouble-now-how-very-immature-time-for-a-lecture" face. (The twins had named it, but Glorfindel was quite fond of the sobriquet himself; he thought it highly accurate.) Glorfindel crossed his legs in the chair and tucked his ankles under his knees, settling in; he had a feeling they might be here for a while, and while sitting cross-legged in a chair might mildly annoy Lord Elrond (and mightily and wonderfully annoy Erestor), and make Celebrían sigh hopelessly when the twins started picking up the habit, Glorfindel found it a far more comfortable position than the other's more dignified posture. Elrond did not even restrain a sigh; not a particularly good sign, Glorfindel thought sinkingly. The Elf Lord had _questions_, and if he was coming to Glorfindel for answers to them…

The Gondolin Elf sobered considerably. But only for a moment; then his irrepressible optimism and good humor won out over his more tactful and serious side. Elrond opened his mouth to speak, but Glorfindel beat him to it. "Why did you not tell me that Thranduil had found a queen?"

Elrond closed his mouth, opened it again, then closed it once more. He stared blankly at Glorfindel who carefully kept a straight face as he continued.

"After all, it must be a rare feat indeed to find an _elleth_ who can put up with the stubbornness of that line; for there to be two such Elf-women who both reside in Greenwood and yet are not directly related…" Glorfindel shook his head. "I would have said it would be an impossibility; that Oropher found a wife is difficult enough to believe, and were it not for Thranduil's existence I would have sincerely doubted the veracity of such a story—but Thranduil, as well? Obviously the _ellith _of Greenwood have a higher tolerance than most for—" Glorfindel paused and looked at Elrond. "Yes, my lord? You are looking at me most strangely…" It was quite a battle to restrain his laughter, but fortunately Glorfindel was a veteran of many difficult battles and he managed to achieve victory over his amusement at the expression on Elrond's face.

However, when the _peredhel _spoke, Glorfindel was forced to admit defeat. "What in Eru's name are you talking about?" It was too much; the Balrog-slayer doubled over in his seat with laughter.

Feeling a highly unamused glare on his shaking head, the blond Elf smothered his laughter—more-or-less—and straightened up. "Oh, my lord, I _am _sorry but _really_, the look on your face…" Glorfindel snickered and tried to swallow it, which resulted in a rather odd hiccoughing sound. Elrond's eyebrow had practically crawled up his forehead to meet his hairline. Glorfindel cleared his throat and calmed down. "Tell me, how fares the little one?"

Elrond sighed heavily and made the face he used when the twins had just proved spectacularly "creative" in their pursuits of amusement. Then he shook his head and sighed again before turning his attention to the Gondolin Elf's question. "He is in no danger," he informed Glorfindel. "He is sleeping heavily, and while his eyes are closed I deem that more exhaustion than illness or injury. Both children are quite thin, you might have noticed, and I judge that they have gone without proper nourishment under hard circumstances for some time. Remedying that should go a long way towards improving their condition. Celebrían is with him now, and Gildor asked to keep watch over the girl. As long as nothing else develops, they should both make a full recovery shortly."

Glorfindel nodded, relieved that the plucky little elfling would suffer no lasting harm. Then he imagined what Thranduil would have said and done had the child showed any ills, and was relieved for a far more survivalist reason as well. He had faced a Balrog's wrath; he had no desire to face the son of Oropher.

"Why," Elrond asked calmly "are you grinning?"

Glorfindel blinked, coming back to the moment and smiled sheepishly. "No reason, my lord. I am glad to hear that the child will be all right," he quickly changed the subject. Then his smile turned mischievous. "No doubt Thranduil would be likewise."

Elrond sighed and fixed the Gondolin Elf with a pointed look. "And why, pray tell," he said with even greater calm"do you maintain that this elfling is King Thranduil's son?"

Glorfindel adopted a serious expression that hid his smirk. "Admittedly, due to the, er, somewhat strained relationship between Oropher and Gil-galad you saw less of the Lords of Greenwood during the Last Alliance than others of us—such as myself—you would be less familiar with them than I. So allow me to assure you, I have no doubt that the little elfling is Thranduil's son."

"Perhaps you would care to explain?" Judging that the calmness of Elrond's tone was approaching dangerous levels, Glorfindel hastened to do just that.

"Yes, well, about that, I really think that perhaps we ought to look into opening better channels of communication with Greenwood. Obviously we have close relations with Lórien due to the Lady Celebrían's ties, but we seem to be decidedly in the dark when it comes to Thranduil's realm." Glorfindel paused as the truth of that statement fully hit him. He looked at Elrond curiously. "When _was _the last news we had from Greenwood?"

Elrond hesitated. "I…am not certain," he said at last. "Certainly quite some time…before the twins were born, I believe…"

Glorfindel nodded; he had not really wanted a specific answer, just a reassurance that there had not been a missive come, say, yesterday that he had just been too oblivious to notice. Such a revelation could have seriously undermined his detective skills, and he was rather proud of his powers of deduction in this case.

"The child…" Elrond reminded the other Elf patiently.

"Of course," Glorfindel said quickly, resolving not to be distracted by inner musing again, at least not until he had finished regaling Elrond with his brilliant wit and powers of observation. The Balrog-slayer grinned; he could not wait to tell Erestor all about it.

……………

Fuiniel studied the Elf Lord in the chair across the room. The firelight made his eyes gleam, but she determined that they were definitely glazed with sleep. She had been carefully watching him for the better part of an hour—probably longer—and he had shown no signs of stirring. She waited only a moment more then, moving with infinite slowness, carefully eased herself out from under the blankets. She waited to see if the bed would creak, but it made no sound as she slowly slid across it. She held her breath as she gently put first one bare foot, then the other, on the smooth wooden floor. The Elf did not move.

Fuiniel moved with the silent steps that only those whose lives have depended on stealth posses. She walked at the edge of her patience, as slowly as she could bear, across the room and out the door. Once through it, she pressed herself against the wall and scanned up and down the hallway. It was long but empty of other Elves. Her grey eyes narrowed in thought as she debated which direction to take. The Elf Lord, Gildor, had said that _ernil _Legolas was in the room next to her own, but he had not said _which _room. Should she go left or right? Left would mean passing the doorway to the room in which she had left the sleeping Elf, but if she was going to pass the door it would be best to do so now before the Elf Lord started searching for her.

The elfling had almost made up her mind to try the left way first when she heard something that eliminated both doubt and stealth: Legolas was crying. Abandoning all thought of silence—although still her footsteps were light enough to be all but inaudible—Fuiniel dashed to her right. She paused in the doorway and her gaze went cold when she assessed the situation.

The fearful-kind Elf Lady was sitting on the edge of the large bed, leaning over something. No, someone. _Legolas_. Grey eyes slim slits of anger, Fuiniel darted into the room and agilely sprang past the Lady and onto the bed. Casting a cold glare at the other, the child slid between the pale Lady and the little prince. Legolas wrapped his arms around her and buried his tears in her shoulder. Fuiniel, eyes fierce and chilling, stared darkly at the Lady who had caused the little prince to cry.

Celebrían leaned away, taken aback by the ferocity of the girl's glare. She reached out tentatively towards the elflings but was stopped by a harsh look from the girl-child. Celebrían frowned, not understanding why the elfling would not let her help.

"Child," Celebrían began softly, but never got to finish.

"You may call me Fuiniel," the girl spat coldly, holding Celebrían's gaze for a disconcerting moment before turning her attention to the other elfling. He was sniffling a little, but he had stopped crying and sat back, wiping his eyes.

"I am sorry," he whispered, blushing slightly.

"Think no more of it," Fuiniel replied in a far gentler voice than that which she had used when speaking with Celebrían or Elrond. When she spoke again, her tone was far closer to its apparently customary cold harshness. "What did she do?" she asked the other elfling and cast a dark glare at Celebrían who shrugged helplessly.

The Lady wanted to enfold both these battered children in a warm embrace and let them cry out their sorrows to her and then sing them to sleep as she had done many times with her own children, and it pained her to stay back. Yet she knew that any offer of aid would be both resented and coldly rebuked by the girl.

The boy's voice was so quiet that Celebrían could barely hear it, although she was sitting right next to the children. "She…reminded me of naneth," he whispered, blinking back fresh tears. "When I woke, I thought…I thought it was her…" He swallowed hard and bit his freshly bleeding lip. Celebrían's heart ached and she longed to comfort the little one.

The glare that Fuiniel directed at Celebrian this time was fierce enough to have given her indomitable mother pause. The child's grey eyes simmered darkly at Celebrían over the other elfling's pale head.

"Do not worry, Legolas, her ladyship is just leaving," the girl said coldly.

Celebrían's eyebrows shot up; so she was leaving, was she? The Elf fastened her own strong gaze on the child but Fuiniel did not flinch and glared right back. Deciding that there was no need to drop to the maturity level of a thousand-year-old, Celebrían broke the contest of wills and stood up gracefully.

"Ay," she said softly "I am, and I am sorry for causing you any distress, young one. Know that such was not my intent, and I hope to better apologize to you at a later date. Now, though, you are both weary and not yet fully well. Please, go back to your rest. I shall have a meal brought in to you both; you must eat to regain your strength. My husband, Lord Elrond, shall be in shortly to tend to you; he is a skillful healer and you will be well cared for in his hands and our home. I bid you welcome to Imladris, and so take my leave." Celebrían bowed slightly to the children. The girl changed neither position nor expression, glaring coldly at her the entire time. The boy, on the other hand, seemed to react instinctively, rising to his knees and bowing neatly until he overbalanced and toppled over. Blushing faintly, he drew back against the pillows and sneaked a glance up at Celebrían through a curtain of pale hair. The Elf-woman carefully kept her face serious and calm, showing no reaction to his tumble.

"I thank you, lady," he said politely and Celebrían nodded regally at both children before moving to the door. She paused before exiting and looked back.

"Come, Fuiniel, let me show you back to your room; you need rest as well."

The child's glare, impossible although Celebrían would have thought it before this moment, grew even darker. She shook her dark head firmly. "Nay" the girl said firmly. "I shall stay right here."

Again Celebrían caught the elfling's gaze with her own, but the child seemed adamant. Judging that there were better battles to fight, the Elf allowed the girl this victory. "Very well," she nodded. "I shall see that a proper meal is brought you both. I bid you a pleasant night, and look forward to speaking with you both at better length in the morning."

As she left the room, Celebrían could feel unhappy grey eyes carefully following her ever step. The Elf shivered slightly at the cold feel of that harsh gaze and quickened her step. She had the feeling that she had somehow made a very poor impression with at least one of the children.

……………

Fuiniel glared at the painfully-kindly Elf Lady as she left until ever strand of silver hair had disappeared out the door. Then she turned back to Legolas and examined the other elfling with a critical eye. He scrubbed at his eyes and quickly stifled a yawn when he saw her watching him.

"How do you fare?" Fuiniel asked seriously.

"I am fine," he answered quickly. The girl quirked an eyebrow: _really? _Legolas flushed slightly and bit his lip. "Well, perhaps I am a bit tired," he admitted grudgingly.

Having just woken herself less than a day previously, Fuiniel knew very well how Legolas must be feeling. But she had also spent enough time with the other elfling to know that he did not want to admit how truly woozy and weak he was at the moment. She nodded seriously and gestured to the pile of pillows that covered the headboard of the large bed.

"Get some rest," she advised. "You will feel much better after some sleep and food."

Legolas nodded, yawning again. "All right," he mumbled as his eyes glazed over. Fuiniel shook her head and gently pushed the other elfling over so that he was lying down. Then she sighed and settled herself cross-legged on the bed next to him facing the door.

_I shall guard your sleep, so that the hateful-gentle Lady does not again distress it_, she promised the little prince silently. She was still quivering slightly from her encounter with the Elf Lady, although she thought that she had managed to hide that from _her_. She could not allow the Lady to offer kindness—not now, not again. It was hard to be strong, it was hard not to remember, when the reminders were so painfully clear.

Fuiniel narrowed her cold eyes. She stared hard at the empty doorway, concentrating. If she concentrated deeply enough, she would not have to pay attention to the memories whispering to her from the distant, shadowy corners of her mind that she had pushed them into. If she did not relax her grip, she could hold out against them. She did not want to remember.

As long as she held on tightly, she would not have to remember.

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**Reviewer Responses:**

**Laiquendi –** Well, Legolas was certainly shocked, although Fuiniel's holding out. And Erestor…well, I can't say for sure, but hopefully they'll be lots more of the councilor and his rantings in the future!

**Deana –** Yes, definitely poor little elfling. And that was a great snippet, thanks again for pointing it out!

**EastCoastie – **Maybe she melted? Anyway, yes, "duh," Thranduil will eventually show back up, but not for some time. Sorry! Heh heh heh…patience, my dear, patience! Don't worry, the king is—er—ever so _patiently _reminding me that he doesn't like to be kept waiting. Good thing he's got Tiraren and Tarlas to restrain him…that way I live to post another day… ;)

**kel –** tee hee? Did you just tee hee me? Well, whatever works! lol

**Aranna –** Hundredth review! Hundredth review!You win the prize! …as soon as I figure out what it is…um… I got it! No wait, I don't got it… How about an ewok dance of joy in your name? Sound good? ;) _Rhys proceeds to do the dance. _Anyway…Well, I know_I _certainly didn't use "le ab dollen" absoltuely every time it was even the slightest bit appropraite…nope, that must have been someone else… ;P Yay you indeed! And thank you; and yes, they are safe (physically) for a bit. But never fear, it won't be _too _long! Just enough to patch them up and then—I'll stop talking. That's what will happen. Yes.

**Sadie Elfgirl –** Hee hee! Glad to hear it; I'll be sure to do it some more, in that case! Heh, you didn't think "yes Erestor" had gotten to become an instinctive and habitual response, did you? _snicker_. Er, no, I wouldn't really say that Fuiniel is all that thrilled…but this wouldn't be an angst fic if you didn't feel bad for little Legolas! ;)

**Alma –** Why thank you, as always much appreciated! Thrilled that you like the characters! I'll do my best…

**Zammy –** "update SON"? Um, well, if you're going to call me anything, it ought to be "daughter" seeing as how I don't really fit the general description of the word "son"…lol Just poking fun, it's my nature! Glad you're engaged in the story!

**Coolio02 –** safe and warm and cuddled—and not really thrilled about that last bit, it seems…silly elflings! Thanks!

_Hey, guess what everyone? To celebrate hitting 100 reviews, how about a picture? I put a sketch of Fuiniel and Legolas up on my blog—click "homepage" on my profile to check it out… (there's one for Exploring Darkness too, for any of you who were reading that one.) Anyway, I'm a bit tired; I was in a movie today and it was grueling. No, not really…I volunteered/got suckered into being an extra for a film student at school here. I had to go to a club that she'd managed to talk her way into during closed time and we all "danced" a bit…first time I'd been in a club. Can't say as how I was impressed enough with the concept to go back, but being on film was fun even if it did cause flashbacks to horribly boring middle school dances. ;) So I'm off to bed now, I'll see you all as soon as I can get the next bit written! Many thanks again. Take care!_

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P.S. Have discovered that the uploading process is now creating punctuation errors. Please bear with me as I attempt to catch them all, and if you see a sentence that makes no sense I would really appreciate it if you pointed it out so that I know to fix it. Thanks again, and good night! 


	20. Painful Questions

The week-end has finally started for me (well, I have one more class in about ten minutes, but other than that…basically, I don't have to be working on homework right now because nothing's due 'til Monday!) and at last, there's a new post. I am really, really, really sorry for how long this update took to get out. Hopefully a whole week will never go by like that again, but I can make no promises. I'm going to hope that they were evil because last week was mid-terms, and that the teachers will slack off a bit more in their assigments the rest of the year. But let me just apologize, and promise that I'll post another chapter this weekend one way or another. Promise! And again, I'm really really sorry!

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Chapter Twenty: Painful Questions

Despite their exhaustion, both elflings sat up and stared wide-awake in the manner of those to whom alertness had long become a necessity and habit at Elrond as the Elf Lord silently entered the chamber. He caught Fuiniel's eyes for a moment, letting her know that he had learned everything that she had said with his wife, but the child stared back coolly and unabashed. Deciding that he would have to soon learn just what had so scarred this girl to forge her so harshly, Elrond sighed slightly and turned his gaze to the younger elfling—the one that Glorfindel had convinced him was Thranduil's son.

Studying the child closely, Elrond could see little resemblance. The child possessed the same golden hair that Oropher and Thranduil had glimmered with, although Elrond thought that perhaps the child's locks were slightly paler than the fiery ones of Greenwood's stubborn king. That strong stubbornness was missing from the boy's pale face as well; his eyes were wide and innocent and his expression one of open curiosity and confusion. Still, the Balrog-slayer had been right; Elrond had not spent as much time with the Greenwood Elves as Glorfindel. He would trust to the other's deductions—although the matter would soon be easily settled for certain.

Elrond nodded to the children. "_Aur vaer_, little ones," he said kindly. Fuiniel's expression did not change and she sat stonily on the thick blankets. The littler elfling, however, rose quickly to his knees and bowed in a courtly manner.

"And may the trees guard your day," he replied formally. Elrond quickly suppressed a small smile at the sight: a sleep-disheveled child, thin and wan and clad only in a pale nightdress, still half-buried beneath many layers of blankets, reacting with the nobility and dignity of a great Elf Lord twenty times his years. It was an endearing image, and it also served as evidence that the little Elf was recovering quickly; Celebrían had told him that only last night he had toppled over when attempting a similar gesture.

Then the little blonde elfling "surreptitiously" elbowed the darker-haired one. She grimaced slightly but the boy raised his eyebrows expectantly and, rolling her eyes, she muttered a cheerless, "good morn."

Elrond nodded regally to both of them and gracefully seated himself in the chair by the bed. "I am pleased to see that you both appear well," he said with true feeling. "Pray, allow me to now take a moment for propriety. I am Lord Elrond, and you are in Imladris, known also as Rivendell. I bid you welcome."

The littler elfling nodded in return. "We thank you for your generosity and aid," he said politely. He glanced at his companion, and seemed to decide that she appeared in no mood to speak. "I am Legolas, and this is Fuiniel." Then he made a face, as if remembering something distasteful. "I mean, I am _ernil _Legolas Thranduilion, and I am in your debt," he corrected himself, bowing from the waist with a hand pressed formally over his heart.

Elrond smiled warmly. It seemed that Glorfindel had been right; Erestor would not be pleased. The ongoing feud between the Balrog-slayer and his chief councilor had long since ceased to be a matter of annoyance and become instead a source of continual amusement to the rest of Imladris. "It is an honor to have you here, both of you," Elrond replied to the child. Legolas seemed trusting enough of him, but Fuiniel's grey eyes had yet to show a spark of warmth. "Would you allow me the pleasure of sharing the morning repast with you?"

Legolas nodded eagerly and while Fuiniel's eyes had brightened at the mention of proper food, her gaze had lessened in neither intensity nor hostility. Still, he took it as a good sign; if they were hungry, they were better, physically at least. While it was obvious to the Elf Lord that there were many scars for the children yet to heal—both to body and _feä_—he would gladly accept whatever good signs he could find.

Bronsell, who had been waiting cautiously just outside the doorway, whisked briskly in then with a tray of breakfast in her hands. She set it on the small table by Elrond's side and smiled warmly at the small elflings before excusing herself—no doubt to go report to Glorfindel, Gildor, Erestor, and Lindtulin at least, if no others, how the children looked this morning, Elrond mused fondly.

Then his smile faded. The elflings' eyes were wide, as if they had not seen food in a long time. Elrond sighed and quickly readied plates for them, examining the selection carefully. He knew that Bronsell was talented enough a healer to have chosen only simple and filling foods that would be good for the half-starved children, but Elrond was a careful person and double-checking never hurt anything.

For a time, the only sounds were that of silverware scraping plates. Elrond appeared to have all his attention directed at the food in front of him, but he was carefully watching the elflings. Legolas had paused only for a polite thanks before bending over his plate, but Fuiniel had hesitated for a moment. Trust seemed hard to her, and accepting kindness harder. Elrond was both worried and intrigued; he needed to know what ailed the girl, both so that he could help her and because otherwise the curiosity would drive him to distraction. Elrond had never done well with ignorance; it was the driving force that had lead Imladris to be a repository of scrolls and knowledge and the _peredhel _to become known as a master of lore. But there were no scrolls to explain these elflings—only their words could tell him what he needed to know.

He waited until they had eaten before he spoke again, casually as he stacked the now-empty plates back on the tray and poured them both a mug of warm tea. "Might I ask how you came to be so far from your home? For I judge by your garb that you are of Greenwood the Great." The Elf Lord was careful not to look at the children as he spoke; he wanted to draw them into his questions before they realized. He hoped that doing so would allow them to tell him more things more freely, without fear of either memories or rebuke.

"The _yrch _were chasing us," Legolas replied solemnly but simply. Elrond nodded, eyes still fastened on the tea he was slowly pouring, and waited but it seemed that no more was to be forthcoming.

Locking eyes with the smaller elfling as he handed him the cup of tea, the Elf Lord spoke lightly. "Just the two of you?"

Legolas nodded as he took a sip. "Ay. They…" his clear blue eyes darkened for a moment and his voice dropped to a whisper. "They killed the others," he murmured.

"My heart is grieved to hear it," Elrond replied sincerely. "Thank the Valar that you two survived their foul blades."

"Oh no," Legolas corrected him quickly, "Fuiniel was not there when we were attacked. She…" his voice trailed off and he looked at his companion whose face was downcast and hidden behind dark locks.

"When was this?" Elrond asked, hoping to catch the child's attention before he chose silence over speech.

"I…do not know, exactly," the little elfling answered hesitantly. "The beginning of _lhasbelin_…"

Elrond's eyebrows shot up. They had been on their own for that long—and crossed the Misty Mountains all the way from Greenwood? "And you met Fuiniel after this?" he prompted gently.

Legolas nodded. "Ay, after I escaped, she helped me flee from the _yrch_."

Elrond started then quickly recovered his calm and comforting demeanor. "You had been captured by the orcs?" he asked neutrally. The Elf Lord has suspected as much. What other explanation was there for the faint lash-lines still not quite vanished from the child's back, or the fading marks on his wrists?

Legolas nodded and a shadow and a shudder passed over his face. "Ay," he whispered. "They…" the elfling's voice trailed off. Elrond put a hand on the child's shoulder.

"Hush, little one. You do not need to speak of it." He would have to sooner or later, Elrond felt, to draw the poison of fear and hurt from his mind, but now was not the time. Legolas nodded and swallowed hard, pushing the memories away. Elrond glanced at Fuiniel, hoping to draw her into the conversation, but cold grey eyes stared at him warningly from behind a thin curtain of dark hair. He sighed and decided to get what he could of their story from Legolas before trying to learn the secrets of the girl.

"You fled from the orcs," he said in an effort to continue the story. "Fled all the way here?"

Legolas nodded. "We were trying to get home, back to ada nin, but the _yrch _found us and we had to run." So, King Thranduil had not been among those slain by the orcs; Elrond filed that away as a piece of good news. He would have to tell Glorfindel…not that, now that he thought about it, the Gondolin Elf had seemed to be particularly worried…why was that? Was Glorfindel just immune to the thought of dying, or had it simply not crossed his mind? Another interesting question to ponder…later.

"Did they chase you over the mountains?"

The child nodded again. "Yes, and they almost caught us a few times. Their scouts found us three times, but Fuiniel managed to kill them before they could summon the rest of their horde."

The girl spoke for the first time, quietly, more to Legolas than Elrond. "You shot some as well, and slew one with the knife."

Legolas nodded slightly, but clearly dismissed his own contribution as of little importance to their survival. Elrond thought he detected the faint hints of a much-repeated conversation. The Elf Lord looked at the girl, wondering if he could perhaps draw her into the discussion now. Her participation, he judged, was a good sign. She was at least willing to speak, if not yet to him, then in front of him.

"You killed the orcs that found you?" Elrond asked the girl hopefully.

She nodded sharply and her eyes narrowed, meeting his for the first time. "Ay," she said harshly, "I did. I have slain them before." Unspoken in her gaze was the promise that she would continue to do so in the future. That explained part of her stiffness, perhaps; she feared that he would attempt to forbid her from doing so or to chastise her for the deeds. Maybe that line of questioning…

"You seem young to have been trained to hunt orcs," he commented neutrally.

Her frown deepened. "I was not trained," she corrected him. "I learned."

"Fuiniel hunted the _yrch _after…" Legolas abruptly fell silent and glanced at his companion. She had neither looked at him nor shown any sign of reaction to his words, but it seemed as if some unspoken communication passed between them for the younger elfling turned his attention to his tea and did not speak further.

Elrond debated; dared he press any harder? He was on the brink of learning the secret of this strange girl, but it was a delicate brink. He could very easily push too much and she would turn and withdraw and all chance would be gone. Yet if he did not get her to open up, the wounds that were so evident on her soul would fester and grow darker. The Elf Lord hesitated only a moment; he would risk it. "After what?" he said softly, his intense gaze locked tightly on Fuiniel's shadowed eyes.

She stared at him harshly, then a veil seemed to slip between them and she dropped her gaze. "After death," she whispered and turned away wrapping her arms around her knees and bowing her dark head.

Elrond reached forward to comfort the child but Legolas caught his eye. Shaking his head, the smaller child mournfully stopped the _peredhel_. Elrond sighed inwardly with frustration but sat back resignedly as the younger elfling tentatively placed a hand on the other's shoulder. He could not quite make out the words the boy whispered, he spoke so quietly, but Fuiniel nodded stiffly. She brushed Legolas's fingers with her own, then pulled away.

The little prince looked unhappy when he turned back to face the Elf Lord and his blue eyes were troubled. But he spoke calmly and nobly, and politely asked, "what else would you know, my lord?"

Deciding to abandon that line of questioning, Elrond thought that perhaps speaking of less distressing things would be good for both children. And, after all, he wished to know of Greenwood as well as the circumstances that had led the elflings to his home.

"Tell me of your family, Legolas. Your adar is well, I hope?"

The elfling nodded. "Yes, thank you. I am sure that he would have sent his regards had he known that I would be seeing you," he said earnestly.

Elrond had to struggle to hide his smile. "I am glad to hear it. Please, extend mine when next you see him." The child nodded again quickly. Elrond saw that the child had drank all of his tea and turned to pour him more. "Tell me, Legolas, have you any brothers or sisters?"

"Nay, my lord," he answered politely—then smiled, as if remembering something fondly. Elrond's own lips twitched; perhaps that circumstance would soon be changing?

"And what of Thranduil's queen? Tell me of your mother, child, if your please; I had not heard that King Thranduil wedded—"

The reaction to his words was nothing that Elrond could have predicted. Legolas's face went white and his soft gaze seemed to shatter into sharp tears with a pained gasp Before the _peredhel _could blink, Fuiniel had snapped forward and wrapped the younger elfling into a tight hug as he started sobbing. Her eyes, when they met the Elf Lord's, were burning with a fiery wrath that would have done Maedhros proud. Elrond leaned back in spite of himself at the strength of that glare.

"Leave," she hissed at him venomously through clenched teeth.

Elrond hesitated, wanting both to comfort and understand, but at last bowed to the command. He quietly lifted the now empty trays and rose to leave. The Elf Lord paused in the doorway and looked back to see the two wounded elflings clinging tightly to one another.

He sighed again and turned away. He could feel the shadows that lay thick on the children's souls, and while he longed to tear them away he knew not what sort of light would dispel this darkness.

……………

"Glorfindel!"

The Balrog-slayer spun smoothly and grinned at the two identical young Elves waving excitedly at him as they dashed up the hallway. Elrond's sons had been on patrol for the past few weeks, travelling with one of the bands of Rangers that kept the area safe. Now that they had returned, life would be far more interesting.

"We are back!" the twin in darker green said, smiling widely.

"But we found no orcs, bandits, or marauding shades of darkness," the twin in the reddish tunic added sadly.

"It was quite boring," said the first, his grin just as broad as his brother's.

"But we learned some new camp songs," the second continued.

"Although we are not to sing any of them around naneth," the first added.

"Or probably adar, for that matter," said the second.

"And definitely not Arwen," the first added vehemently.

"Although I am certain that Erestor would love to hear them," the second grinned wickedly.

"Speaking of the dear old advisor, have you driven him to the Havens yet?" asked the first, smirking.

"Now Elladan," the second—now known as Elrohir—chided with an equally devilish smile, "you know he would never go without us there to bid him farewell."

"That is true," his brother—hereafter called Elladan—admitted cheerily. "Glorfindel would never manage to do so without us."

"So tell us," Elrohir asked eagerly, "has aught of note occurred while we were gone?"

Glorfindel grinned at the twins. "Well, Erestor heard rumors of orcs nearby." The boys groaned; they knew how cautious their father's advisor was, and they also knew how the slightest bit of danger made him overreact worse than any mother hen. They had had a great deal of experience with that growing up under his watchful eyes.

"And, let us see, Lindir finally finished fashioning that new song, I expect that he will be eager to play it for you…" The twins nodded, falling into step with the Elf Lord as he continued down the hall. "Letters arrived from Lórien, I believe your mother put yours in your room…" They smiled, happy to hear from their grandparents. "Hmm…Arwen asked about you every day, and I, er, might have occupied the girl by telling her a few stories, so, um, perhaps you would be so good as to not mention to your mother the precise reason why she refuses to sit within reach of the hearth…"

Elladan and Elrohir sniggered. They were quite familiar with Glorfindel's stories, and fondly remembered being terrified when they were little elflings. They exchanged identically mischievous glances; surely there was some fun to be had there. Glorfindel knew the twins quite well, and he could see the familiar glints in their eyes that signified trouble in the making.

"Oh," the Elf Lord continued casually as they paused by his room, "Gildor and I found two elflings from Greenwood in the snow. They are in the healing rooms recuperating—they had been chased by orcs." The twins' faces were perfect pictures of shock as jaws dropped and eyes went wide. Glorfindel grinned. "Good day, boys," he said politely and vanished into his chambers.

Precisely three seconds after the door shut it started shaking as the twins pounded on it. Their outraged shouts could be heard through the thick wood and the Balrog-slayer dissolved in laughter.

"Glorfindel!"

* * *

Aur vaer – good morning  
Lhasbelin – leaf-fall (autumn)

Oh, and the reason the Rivendell Elves say and think "orc" while the Greenwood ones say "orch" is because is Rivendell they have as much reason to speak Westron as Sindarin, while in Greenwood they're pretty isolated from everyone else. Every conversation (well, unless it's orcs talking, obviously) is in Sindarin. That little consistent inconsistency is because Greenwood is self-contained and walled off from the rest of the world, while Imladris is connected and open. And…I don't know, I just sort of wanted to show the difference between the solitary Silvan Elves and their more open brethren. Plus, they do have pretty different accents, so there's that, too. Anyway, there's that reasoning.

**Reviewer Responses:**

**Laiquendi –** sorry, it'll be a while before Thranduil shows up. He tried to kill me so I sent him to time-out! No, really, I mean it! …okay, maybe not really…but he does drop out of the story for a while. Contrary to what his highness will tell you, Legolas and Fuiniel really _are _the main characters of the story, _not _the gold-head-slaughter-son! And I'm so glad you enjoyed the last chapter, and your review made me so happy—that's just what I was trying to do:D

**Alma –** Fuiniel, tragic? Heh heh heh heh heh… Well, we'll see… Thank you!Deana – yes, can't have our prince dying of cold; the irony of Caradhras would be just too much to bear…

**Aranna –** Happy me, too! Yeah, I bet Celebrían would agree with you on that one. Wait 'til we get to see _her _kids…heh! Hee hee, yes, there will be lots more Glorfindel! Hey, if I can't have Thranduil, I have to fill in with another blond Elf Lord, right? ;) Nope, lots more stiching going on before the sword-swinging starts again. Sorry, action-junkies, you're stuck with angsty sweetness for a while! Ah, lovely maniacal laughter, lovely! Keep up the good work…and I hope you found some yummy food!

**kel –** you ask, I deliver. Two twins, just for you…

**Zammy – **ah, I knew what you meant, I just had to tease you—it's my evil nature. ;)

**Kirsten –** I'm so sorry it took so long! Forgive me?

**East Coastie –** Heh, human, elvish, yeah…I understand the confusion…lol Thank as ever:)

**MCross –** Thank you! About Fuiniel's memories…well, we'll be teasing little bits and pieces out of her, but pop back to the Prologue and you'll get a pretty good guess what they are. I know, I know, I feel so bad for Thranduil…but I really can't just _tell _him, you know? Ruins the whole angst-factor…

**megan –** Erm, sorry? But yeah…finally…here you go!

Again, everyone, I'm sorry! Thanks for sticking around, I really really appreciate all the lovely reviews! There'll be more soon to make up for this, I promise! Okay, I'm gonna be late, so I have to fly! Bye!


	21. In Imladris They Dwell

Well, I said that one way or another I would have an update this weekend, and while it's technically Monday now, it's not bedtime yet, so I would say that this counts. Sorry, I meant to have it out sooner, but I decided to re-write this in the effort of wasting less time story-wise. Just a nice little happy chapter, but hey, it has the twins, so it should be at least amusing! Don't worry, the angst will be returning soon, as will the action. ;)

* * *

Chapter Twenty-One: In Imladris They Dwell

Glorfindel shrugged. "I am sorry, Elrond, I have no more knowledge of this than you. He was not wed when last I saw him, but that _was _a thousand years ago, after all. I know not what could have happened to his queen to so distress the child."

"We know little of what has happened in Greenwood the Great in recent years overall," Erestor pointed out sharply. "Little news has come from Lórien and less from Greenwood itself."

"Even to Lórien has come little word," Celebrían added softly. "The Elves of Greenwood suffered grievous losses and withdrew to mourn them."

"Yet that was so long ago," Gildor pointed out. "Surely they have grown less reclusive"

Glorfindel, his face strangely serious, caught his kinsman's eye with a strange and powerful gaze. "Have you felt loss of such weight," he asked quietly, "that you would know how long the sadness should last 'ere it lessens with time"

"I…no," the other Elf replied faintly. "No I…I know not." He shifted a bit under the twice-born Elf's intense stare and looked away.

There was silence for a moment, then Celebrían spoke again. "I believe that they have rather grown more isolated with time," she said, bringing the subject discreetly back to topic and away from discomfort of confrontation and memory.

Elrond shook his head, frustrated with the lack of explanation or answers. "They were always a markedly separate people," he said more to himself than the other Elves seated in his study as he paced back and forth between them. "They did not meddle in other affairs, and none bothered them in turn. Yet after the War of the Alliance they cut themselves off from all contact, withdrawing into their trees. And we paid them no mind, for to us it seemed little different than their previous seclusion, and all were then bowed with grief and loss."

"My lord," Glorfindel said as diplomatically as he could, "while 'tis good no doubt to examine the reason for our lack of news, it does little to affect the fact that we know naught of which we need to."

Erestor sniffed disdainfully. "Without knowing the background of a situation, one cannot have a true understanding of it," he replied to the Gondolin Elf. "Occasionally thought can come in handy."

Glorfindel glanced at the advisor. "Examining the past is all well and good, but dwelling on the why of something does nothing to change it. Our—" he grinned at Erestor "—at least some of our—thoughts could be better turned to the problem at hand."

"A flawed understanding leads to flawed conclusions," the councilor stated firmly.

"Yet is not a flawed conclusion better than none at all?"

Celebrían interrupted discreetly. "Whatever we muse upon, the end result is the same. All the thinking and pondering in Arda will not suddenly bless us with insight into Thranduil's queen. We know only that the thought of his mother distresses young Legolas, and Fuiniel as well."

"Although her distress is more like anger," Elrond muttered. His wife grinned at him before continuing.

"If the girl could be drawn out of her shield, we could learn of it from her, but I would not wish to ask Legolas and bring him more sorrow." Celebrían's grey eyes were stricken at the thought of one so young being bearer of such pain and Elrond laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"Should not the information come from the one who would know more?" Erestor asked skeptically.

Glorfindel glared at the advisor. "You would make an elfling cry simply to assuage your curiosity?"

Erestor bristled. "Nay," he retorted sharply, "I would see the child aided in whatever way we can do so, but if we know not what ails him we cannot do so."

"Friends, peace," Elrond interjected quickly. He was treated to two nearly-identical glares for daring to interrupt their argument and the _peredhel _sighed. "By the Valar, you two are as much trouble as the twins" he muttered.

A hush fell over the group and they listened for sounds of a disturbance. "Meleth," Celebrían asked in a voice of extreme calmness, "where _are _the boys?"

………………

"What if they are sleeping?"

"We shall leave and come back."

"What if they are not sleeping?"

"We shall speak to them. That _is _what we came to do, after all."

"Yes, but…what if they do not want to speak to us?"

"Elladan, my brother, please! It is us! How could they not wish to speak to _us?_"

"Ah, thank you, my brother, I had forgotten."

"Honestly, Elladan, I do not know how you get along without me."

"That is easy, Elrohir—I do not."

"That is right, I had forgotten."

"And what would you do without me?"

"Mm. Much the same, I imagine."

"Shh! Let us see…"

Elladan carefully eased the door open and peered in. Elrohir craned his neck to see over his brother's head and they stared into the dim room. Then they exchanged identically mischievous grins and slipped through the thin crack. They closed the door soundlessly behind them and dropped to the floor. Moving soundlessly on hands and knees they crawled over to the bed. The boys winked at one another, then, in perfect unison, sprang up and propped themselves on the edge of the mattress. They grinned at the two surprised elflings who spun to face them.

"Hello."

"Welcome to Imladris."

"I am Elladan. This is my brother—"

"Elrohir. At your service."

"We have only just returned home."

"We wanted to welcome you in person."

"We have heard much of you."

"You must be Fuiniel."

"And you would be Legolas."

"We heard that you yelled at our father."

"Is that true?"

Fuiniel glared darkly at the young Elves. "Ay," she replied curtly. "'Twas deserved, I assure you."

"Nay, you misunderstand."

"Ay, we are not upset with you"

"We wanted to congratulate you."

"Well done." Elrohir shook the surprised child's hand, then Elladan did the same after his brother relinquished it.

"Yes, our father can be quite daunting when he wants to be."

"But you rather turned the tables on him, it sounds."

"So you will understand that we are both quite impressed with you."

Fuiniel stared at the two Elves. "Oh," she said quietly. They grinned at her. "I…thank you," she murmured quietly, caught off guard.

"So tell us all about Greenwood."

"We have never been there."

"Are there are many trees as they say?"

"And is King Thranduil as—ow!" The twin turned to glare at his brother and rubbed the spot on his chest where the other had elbowed him.

"Elladan, Legolas is Thranduil's son," Elrohir hissed scoldingly.

"I was _going _to say, as skilled at battle as the stories say."

"Oh. Carry on then."

"Thank you. _Ahem_." The twins turned back to the elflings, who were staring at them, unable to manage a sentence in between their fast words even had they known which question to start with. They returned to their questioning as if the interruption had never taken place. "And is King Thranduil as skilled at battle as the stories say?"

"Did you truly travel all the way here on your own?"

"Oh, the orcs! Tell us of the orcs!"

"Yes, they say you fought them."

"We have not encountered any yet."

"We have looked, with the Rangers—the Dúnedain—but have not had the chance to clash with them."

"Tell us, do they look as horrid as it is said?"

"How did they fight, the ones you met?"

"Were they any good?"

"What sort of orcs were they, where were they from?"

"How did you get away?"

"Please, tell us something"

Fuiniel and Legolas exchanged bewildered looks. "How can we tell you anything when you do not cease to ask questions?" the boy asked at last.

The twins looked at each other, then burst into laughter. "Elladan, we did it again."

"I would say that we have, Elrohir."

"I apologize. Sometimes when we speak—"

"—we tend to forget that we need to pause."

"We talk too fast—"

"—because we are so used to talking to each other—"

"—and we usually already know what the other is about to say—"

"—and so we speak quickly."

"We apologize."

"Now…if we promise to allow you time to answer…"

"Will you tell us of the orcs?" Elladan and Elrohir smiled eagerly, eyes sparking with anticipation.

Legolas and Fuiniel looked at each other and shrugged.

"Well," said the prince, "what would you like to know?"

The twins' smiles widened, taking on the expression that warned the inhabitants of Imladris to flee 'ere trouble started. Legolas and Fuiniel were unfamiliar with that particular look in their eyes—but they could guess.

Legolas grinned and Fuiniel's lips twitched in spite of herself. They had a feeling that these two young Elves were a bit different than what they would have expected from the sons of the calm and collected Lord Elrond.

………………

Glorfindel peered into the study where Elrond and Erestor were pouring over scrolls or maps or some sort of important paper that he did his best to avoid and ignore. The two lore-masters looked up when the door was yanked open and the golden-haired Elf's head shot in.

"News, my lord," he said with a face that was attempting to stay serious although his eyes sparkled and his lips refused to stay straight. "The twins have encountered our lost little elflings." The Balrog-slayer grinned as Elrond and Erestor blanched. He laughed and vanished, leaving the Lord of Imladris and his chief advisor alone.

"My lord," Erestor said carefully, "I have on occasion been called an alarmist, yet I feel that I will not be exaggerating if I say that I feel we are all quite doomed."

"I would have to agree with you, my friend," Elrond said with a sigh.

………………

"Elrohir, I have a plan," Elladan said suddenly.

Elrohir rolled over to look at his brother. "I was sleeping," he complained.

Elladan snorted and glanced at the mussed figure in the other bed. "You were not, do not try to fool me brother, I know you too well." Elrohir smiled sheepishly and tucked his hair out of his eyes. "Now do not change the subject. I said I have a plan."

"Then please, my brother, what is this plan of yours?"

"Do you not think that those two need cheering up?"

"Legolas and Fuiniel?"

Elladan nodded earnestly.

"Ay," said Elrohir. "They are both too serious for their own good, but especially Fuiniel."

"They have seen much sorrow and hardship."

"You are right, my brother."

"As always."

"Well, except when you disagree with me. Then you are wrong."

"No, my brother, you have us confused again. That is when _you _are wrong."

"I do not think that it is I who am confused."

"Well, it seems that we are not in agreement…which would mean that you are wrong."

"It would mean that one of us is wrong," Elrohir said with a smirk.

"Good, I am glad that you see things my way," Elladan said calmly. Elrohir rolled his eyes but allowed his brother to remain in his state of confusion.

"Whatever delusions you wish to operate under," he muttered. Elladan chose to pretend that he had not heard him.

"As I was saying, they both need to be cheered up."

"They are quite sorrowful little creatures."

"They are far too young to be so mournful."

"And I assume that you have a plan to correct this"

"Indeed I do, my brother," he grinned. "Indeed I do."

"Excellent," said Elrohir, mirroring his brother's broad smile. Grey eyes glinted mischievously at each other in the moonlight as the twins plotted.

………………

"Wake up," one of the twins beamed happily as Legolas blinked groggily up at the tall Elf.

"Elladan?" the elfling asked sleepily.

"Elrohir," he corrected absently. "Come, get up and dress. Elladan is waking Fuiniel and fetching breakfast. We will eat on the way."

"On the way to what?" Legolas asked as he slid out of the bed.

Elrohir grinned. "That's a secret. Hurry and dress"

"But…Lord Elrond does not want us out and about yet," the child protested slowly.

Elrohir smirked and rolled his eyes. "Ada always tries to coddle people. Worry not, trust me! Elladan and I have been disobeying his orders for centuries and we are none the worse for wear." The twin tossed Legolas's boots at him. "Come!" He vanished out the door.

Legolas hesitated a moment, then shrugged and started dressing. He _was _feeling much better, after all…

………………

The twins had an elaborate series of steps to sneak out of the building undetected. They worked as a team, with one scouting ahead and signaling the other when the coast was clear. Their path was convoluted and wound through little used hallways, occasionally cutting through windows and jumping adjoining balconies. But it seemed much practiced and certainly it proved to work well, for within a short time the four young Elves were outside in the wintry gardens of Imladris.

Elrohir waited with the elflings while Elladan crept forward in the bushes. Finding no one about, he quickly waved to the others and they slipped into the trees. The woods were thin and bare to the two children, used to Greenwood's thick boughs and ancient trees, but still it felt like home to the Wood Elves. They followed the twins, skirting past fountains and courtyards, until at last them came to a secluded grove.

Elladan and Elrohir sprawled familiarly on the soft ground and grinned at their companions. Legolas and Fuiniel examined the small clearing, Legolas with the awed eyes of innocent wonderment at natural beauty; Fuiniel checking the trees and brush with the eye of a practiced hunter. Then they joined the twins on the ground.

They spent a few moments just relaxing after their tense escape, enjoying the beautiful day. There was a light coating of snow on the ground and the sparse trees, and it looked like a soft white blanket on the thick bushes, but the sun was shining cheerily and they, being Elven, were not bothered by the cold. Elrond would likely have turned purple at the thought of the two little ones sitting in the snow only four days after he had saved them dying of cold and exposure, but they had recovered quickly and felt no discomfort. Were he to learn of this escapade, however, the twins could count on a lecture that would make even Glorfindel cringe and Erestor feel pity for them.

"Are the trees of Greenwood much larger than these?" Elrohir asked after a time.

Legolas nodded. "They are giants compared to these," he answered earnestly. "At least twice as tall as the largest one here, and many times broader."

"These woods are young," Elladan said. "I can remember when some of the trees were but saplings."

"Every tree in Greenwood is older than me, I think," said Legolas.

Elrohir grinned. "I think almost every tree in Imladris is too, little prince."

Legolas stuck out his tongue at the older Elf. "I am not that young," he answered haughtily.

Elladan's smile was ready to split his face. "Oh no," he agreed, not even attempting to be serious, "I would guess that you are at least twelve."

Legolas scowled, then grinned and, before the Imladris Elf could duck, scooped a handful of snow and lobbed it at him. The snowball his Elladan right in the middle of his forehead. Elrohir howled and rolled in the snow as his brother gaped at the grinning child.

"That was _fast!_" Elladan gasped, wiping snow from his face.

Legolas giggled. "I have been training as an archer," he confessed.

Elladan's eyes narrowed. "Is that so," he asked dangerously. "And have they been teaching you how to dodge?" he asked casually as he fired back with a glob of snow.

Legolas shrieked and ducked, managing to avoid most of the projectile. He grinned, then dove out of the way of a second shot. It missed the little prince and hit Fuiniel's shoulder. She hesitated, but Elladan's sheepish grin of apology was just so smug that she did not hesitate for long—just long enough for the Elf to fire another one right at her. Fuiniel shook snow from her eyes and smiled grimly. Elladan's eyes went wide and he dove behind his brother as the girl scooped up some snow. Elrohir laughed and stepped aside.

"Traitor," Elladan muttered before he was pelted. Elrohir sank back into the snow and laughed even harder at his white-coated twin. Elladan scrambled to the side, pausing next to Legolas. He grinned at the elfling.

"What say we forgive the fact that I aimed at you and ally ourselves against them?" he whispered slyly.

Legolas grinned. "Ay," he replied. "Let us indeed."

Elrohir's laughter was abruptly and coldly silenced as a snowball hit him on the back of the head. He spun and glared to see Legolas and Elladan smiling back innocently. Elrohir's lips twitched and he glanced at Fuiniel.

"Well," he asked her with a wry grin. "Are we to be outnumbered, or shall we join forces?"

Fuiniel hesitated uncertainly, then smiled back. "Very well. And since we are now allies, perhaps you ought to duck?"

Elrohir threw himself into the snow as two white projectiles whizzed narrowly overhead. "Oh, this means war," he said darkly as he rose and brushed futilely at the white coating that had adhered itself to his tunic.

Soon globs of snow were flying back and forth across the small clearing. One of them went far out of range and narrowly missed the nose of a certain Balrog-slayer whose talents at subterfuge had enabled him to surreptitiously trail the twins and the escaped patients. He grinned and brushed at the few flakes that had landed in his face.

He supposed that he really ought to go stop them and send the children back inside, or at least tell Elrond and let the healer handle it, but Glorfindel could not bring himself to stop the battle. They were having fun—even laughing—and while it might well mean a lecture stern enough to strip the skin from his bones later, should Elrond learn what had happened, Glorfindel knew that it had to have been a long time since those little ones had laughed.

He had no intention of causing it to cease.

* * *

**Reviewer Responses:**

**Deana –** feel better now that I've made him a little bit happier, at least for now:)

**MCross –** Don't worry, the angst will be back! Just needed a fluffy chapter to get some character development with everyone's favorite troublemaker-twins!

**Laiquendi –** Yep, talking to Fuiniel is like juggling thermal detonators—another prize to whoever gets that reference:) As for Thranduil…weeeell…no! lol Nope, I'm afraid our king isn't back yet. Not _too _much longer…

**Alma –** thank you, and yes, pacing seems to be the biggest problem, but thanks again! You too.

**East Coastie –** will it help if I say we're just a few chapters away from some more swords? And how about if I promise there'll be _lots _of sword-swinging before we're done? ;) And just so you know, this update definitely counts as on time! It's just an hour and a half past "official" end of the week-end, and I blame my lightbulb burning out and slowing down my still life while I searched for a replacement (eventually settled for a flashlight) for that. :)

**Aranna –** well, I hope you enjoyed the twins! _snort_, Elrond a wimp, hee hee! So, now that we've managed to control you action-addict with the troubles with twins…lol Ew, what are you doing at school until 5:30? Ickiness. I hope it's something at least marginally fun, like a play or something like that. Sorry the update was so late! But I hope you like it.

**Zammy –** lol indeed, I hate those kinds of typos. You see it _right _after you click post, right? And then there's nothing you can do anymore. _C'est la vie_ indeed!

**SadieElfgirl –** Forgiven, never fear! Yes, poor distrustful little Fuiniel. I'm glad you like my Glorfindel, he amuses me, too. Quite a bit. I think he sent a Nuzgûl to nibble my ankle, but so far Glerfindle is fighting off Glorfindel and…wow, that's in interesting mental image. Glorfindel versus his mini-Balrog. Wow. Um, anyway, yes, Erestor _really _appreciates Glorfindel's strange sense of humor. Heh heh heh. Erestor, put the knife down, or I'll tie you up and make you listen while Glorfindel tells as many stories as he wants to! Good advisor… Yes, lots more twins! Hope you like them so far. Until next time!

**kel –** heh, glad you're amused. ;)

_And that's all for now, folks. Bedtime for me, storytime for you. Well, I guess storytime is over now, because this at the end of the update, but anyway…yeah. Sorry I didn't quite get it out in time. This chapter decided to be annoying. I'll be back soon, never fear—we're getting into the bits that I have planned out in more detail. This little Rivendell section got shuffled up quite a bit from its original envisioning, so that made for some great staring-at-the-screen sessions, but we'll be better for awhile! As always, thanks for the lovely reviews, I'm quite grateful for them! Farewell for now!_

**Apparently FFnet hates me, because again it ate almost all of my punctuation. Anything next to a " that wasn't a period, pretty much. So if anything looks funky-that's why. I think I caught it all, but if you see something strange, please point it out so I can curse creatively and fix it. Thanks as ever:D**


	22. Loss

Sorry folks, I would have had this up sooner, but I was hijacked into being an extra for a couple film students when I was just a few paragraphs away from finishing, and even typing at top speed didn't quite get it out in time. Anyway, here it is, a little later than promised, but here nonetheless. Again, I really apologize for not being able to update faster. Stupid fat RL getting in the way…

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Chapter Twenty-Two: Loss

Elrohir whistled to himself as he gently shaped the thin branch, carefully shaving a few slivers of bark off with a sharp knife. He smiled but did not look up as he saw a faint rustle of skirts out of the corner of his eye. He tilted his blade, delicately carving a slight curve in the wood, then looked up and grinned at the young Elf-girl.

She rolled her eyes at him. Her eyes were almost a perfect mirror of his own; a soft grey like pale clouds, although hers were darker than his, as if they bore in their depths the coming of evening. She brushed a few dark strands of hair from her face and looked at him intensely.

"What is bothering you, my brother?" Arwen asked at last.

Elrohir debated a moment about playing innocent, but it was a vain fancy; the only person who knew him better than Arwen was Elladan. His sister knew that he whittled when he was trying to puzzle out a difficult problem. She also knew that carving usually meant that he had come to a solution, and was either working out the details or trying to talk himself into or out of it. Once he stopped staring blankly at the block in his hand and actually put blade to wood, he knew what needed done; he just needed to figure out what he knew.

At last the older sibling sighed. "You have not encountered our new little elflings yet, have you?" he asked, stalling for time.

Arwen shook her head. "Not while they were awake." She raised an eyebrow and the corner of her mouth twitched in a grin. "Two certain _someones _have kept them too busy for me to find the opportunity to introduce myself."

Elrohir affected a look of surprise. "You ought to speak to Glorfindel and Erestor about that, my sister," he said with shock. "How dare they?"

Arwen rolled her eyes again. She was quite talented at expressing a great variety of emotion with that one simple gesture; speaking with her brothers had perfected the young _elleth's _art of the eye-roll. "Elrohir," she said warningly.

The twin winked at her before growing (more-or-less) serious again. "They are very sad," he said softly. "Their memories pain them…but we cannot help, because they will not tell us of them."

Arwen nodded, her pale brow furrowed in thought and concern as she fiddled with a few strands of dark hair. "Know you any of what troubles them?"

"Well, let us see. Legolas was kidnapped by orcs; orcs killed Fuiniel's family; orcs chased them all the way here from Greenwood the Great; they almost froze to death—oh, and something about Legolas's mother upsets both of them greatly. No one knows what _that _is about, yet all think it something horrible."

"Mm," said Arwen chewing on a lock of hair, eyes distant. "You had no need to be sarcastic," she muttered, although her attention was studying the problem rather than her brother. "I was asking if you knew any specifics."

"Alas, I do not." Elrohir batted his sister's hand, knocking the hair from her mouth. She glared at him. "Nana will kill us both if she sees you sucking on your hair and me not stopping you," he spoke sharply before she could chastise him.

Arwen _humphed_ sulkily but let it go. She laced her fingers together in her lap so that she would not accidentally catch her hair again. Celebrían had been trying to break her daughter's habit for the past hundred-and-forty-seven years and had only just started making some progress, but whenever the young _elleth _was faced with a difficult problem she would start up again.

"Well then, what do you intend to do?" the girl asked after a moment.

Her brother grinned broadly—broadly enough to make Arwen groan—and said, "why, find out specifics of course, sister dear!"

Arwen sighed. She ought to have known that Elrohir's brilliant deduction would be something so simple. "And how, precisely, do you intend to do this?" she asked, not sure if she really wanted to know.

"Why, ask!" he answered as if it were the most simple thing in the world. "And you, sister dear, are going to help me."

Arwen sighed again. "Where is Elladan when you need him?" she muttered into the hands she was burying her face in.

Elrohir patted his baby sister's shoulder. "Do not worry," he said brightly, "he shall help as well!"

"Somehow," Arwen murmured, "I do not find this to be entirely reassuring."

……………..

It had taken careful orchestration, and convincing Glorfindel to elfling-sit with his word to tell absolutely no stories, especially about Balrogs, but eventually they had managed it. Many, perhaps, would have deemed their task impossible, but the twins did not acknowledge that word. Anyone in Imladris would have told you that if anyone could accomplish it, it would be them. They were exceptionally skilled in the fine art of manipulation, yet this task had required all their abilities—and they had done it.

They had managed to separate Fuiniel from Legolas's side.

The little girl had appointed herself the other child's protector, it seemed, and just because there were no orcs in Imladris did not mean that she was about to cease her task. It also seemed that she drew as much comfort from his presence as he did from hers. Imladris might be welcoming and its inhabitants friendly, but it was a strange place and the children had been through much difficulty. The only familiar thing in the strange valley was each other, and they clung together. Where one elfling was, the other was nearby. Fuiniel seemed convinced that the moment her back was turned, one of the Imladris Elves would ask Legolas dangerous, painful questions and send the child back into tears. She also might have thought that the moment she was alone, they would ask _her _questions as well.

She was only half-right; Glorfindel was not the type to dig for information if it would cause pain and was, in his opinion, unnecessary to know. He would ask no questions of the little prince—at least nothing personal. A discussion on archery would hurt no one, and was the perfect excuse for the twins and Arwen to make their timely entrance and pull the other elfling away to a different practice field for some swordplay. It had taken all their cunning, but the children of Elrond and Celebrían (especially the twins) were subtle and patient—and difficult to say no to.

Now Fuiniel, borrowed blade that fit her hand much better than the one she had scavenged from carnage, was facing Elrohir as they mimicked the slow motions that Elladan and Arwen were executing next to them. Fuiniel was skilled with a blade, but it was a skill picked up haphazardly, while the twins had trained under some of the best swordsmen of this Age—and of earlier ones, as well. Arwen had learned a little, although not so focusedly as the twins, and Elladan thought that after Fuiniel learned a few sparring pointers she and his sister might be about evenly matched. Elrohir agreed and whispered a few hints to the elfling every time Arwen looked away.

But as the elfling gradually grew comfortable with them, the siblings started exchanging glances. They spoke silently, finally deciding when and how best to broach the subject.

"Fuiniel," Arwen said casually, carefully keeping her eyes on Elladan and his sword and not looking at the little elfling, "we have never seen Greenwood the Great. Would you tell us of it?"

The child spoke hesitantly, but slowly warmed up to her subject, describing the trees and creatures and then the people that made their homes in the forest. She spoke of how the Elves were spread loosely through the woods in small gatherings of _flets _and ground-buildings. She told them of the palace, an elegant, open structure of delicate carvings and interwoven with living trees, more a place of artistry than anything else, although it was practical enough in layout. Around it there was a small concentration of other buildings, the largest group of Wood Elves in one area. Many others resided in the palace itself, for it was spacious enough to comfortably accommodate a larger amount than now resided there—the Elves had slowly spread away from their original settlement, making their homes throughout the wood.

"I assume that King Thranduil and his family still live in the palace, though?" Elrohir asked casually.

"Ay," said Fuiniel, "that is _ernil _Legolas's home."

"But what of the rest of their family?" Elladan asked even more casually than his brother.

A shadow passed over Fuiniel's face. "There are no others," she said quietly.

"I am sorry," said Elrohir sincerely.

"What happened?" Arwen asked softly.

"The _bereth_," Fuiniel said slowly, "she…passed…a few years ago. _Yrch_ came into the forest, apparently fleeing from the Dwarves in the Misty Mountains and…their numbers were great…" she fell silent, staring through the sword that she moved mechanically.

"How horrible," Arwen breathed.

"To lose one's mother…" Elladan murmured. Elrohir nodded in silent agreement. Were anything ill to befall Celebrían—they could not even bear to think of such a thing.

Changing the subject as much for their own sakes as the child's—although they were still in agreement that there was more they needed to know—Elladan spoke again: "Thranduil must be worried sick over the fate of his son."

Elrohir took his brother's set up and continued, "and what of your family, Fuiniel? They must fear for you as well..."

The child rocked back as if she had been hit with a physical blow. The stern mirror of her grey eyes shattered and a wave of loss and pain shone brightly in their depths. With a low cry like that of a wounded animal, she turned and fled, sword falling to the earth from nerveless fingers.

The three children of Elrond stared after her in shock a moment before moving—and by then it was too late. The elfling had made it to the trees, and they could not find her. They searched for hours, and while it occasionally seemed that they caught the distant sound of faint tears, they caught no sight of Fuiniel.

……………..

The girl had fled to the top of a tall tree and clung now to its thin branches. Her eyes were squeezed shut yet tears poured down her face. She trembled, almost falling from the tree, as she rocked back and forth, moaning quietly.

_Your family, your family, your family…_

The words echoed over and over in her head, reverberating off of memories better left buried. She saw her mother's smile, heard her father's laugh. She felt their arms around her—and tasted their blood mingled with her tears as the _yrch _cut them down. A quiet voice whispered soothing words and a pale light slowly grew in the West—but she turned away, blotting out her tears. The girl to whom that comfort was offered was dead.

She was Fuiniel, and for her there was only darkness.

The child sat in the trees until dusk grew, then slowly crept through the deepening shadows back to the Homely House where false candlelight pretended to fight off the darkness. It was impossible, Fuiniel knew. No matter how bright the light you hold against it, the darkness would come.

It was already here.

……………..

The distant stars bathed the gardens of Imladris in a pale white light that gleamed coolly on the snow and glistened off the ice-sheathed branches of the slim trees. That light also shone wetly in the large eyes of the small elfling perched in the windowsill. He looked very fragile, arms wrapped around thin knees that were drawn tightly up to his chest as he stared at the sliver of a fading moon.

A quiet sniffle broke the silence of the frozen night.

Legolas chewed on his lip, trying not to cry. He was glad that Lord Glorfindel and Lord Gildor had found him and Fuiniel, and that Lord Elrond had cared for them. He was truly grateful to everyone in Imladris, and thankful to be here…

But he missed his ada.

He had been brave for so very, very long, and now all he wanted was to be home and have his ada hold him tightly and whisper that everything was all right—but home was so very far away, across tall mountains and past the dark shades of prowling _yrch_. Legolas had never known fear before. He had always been safe and protected; if ada was not there, Tarlas or Gwaebeth or Mîrlóm or someone else would be there with him until ada came home.

Sometimes the little prince had been afraid for his adar. He had seen Thranduil come back bloody and battered, had seen the proud king refusing to show sign of pain or weariness until the door was closed and he could let his shoulders droop with exhaustion and stumble to a seat. He knew that his _daeradar_ had fallen in battle like those his ada would occasionally lead against the _yrch_, and he knew that others could do the same—but he had known that nothing would ever happen to _his _ada. Not Thranduil; he was untouchable, invincible. The Elvenking had promised that he would always be there for his little son…and Legolas believed him.

But now his adar was far away, and Legolas was far from home. Far from ada. And wonderful as Imladris was, it was not home—and ada was not here.

The little prince had been strong and brave for so very long, had stood against _yrch _and fear, trying to be someone his adar would be proud of…and now all he wanted was to go home and have ada hold him again, tell him that he loved him, that he wouldn't ever let anything hurt him again.

A fallen star seemed to glisten for a moment as the cold light was captured by a slim tear that rolled down Legolas's cheek.

"Ada," he whispered and tried to swallow his tears.

……………..

Night had fallen in Imladris and the candles cast a golden glow across the scroll-lined study where the Lord of the Last Homely House was working late after moonrise. He looked up from the history he was translating when a small voice broke the quiet.

"Lord Elrond?"

The _peredhel _peered over the large table at the young elfling watching him with wide and watery eyes. The Elf Lord's brow furrowed; had the child been crying? Elrond rose and walked around the paper-strewn table with a swish of heavy robes and knelt next to the small boy. "What is wrong, Legolas?" he asked gently.

The child bit his lip—which Elrond saw was bleeding again—hesitating. Just as the Elf Lord was about to speak again, Legolas whispered, "I want to go home."

Elrond's grey eyes filled with compassion for the little elfling, but there was nothing he could do. "I am sorry, little one," he replied as kindly as he could, "I know. Yet you must wait until the passes open 'ere the mountains can be traveled."

The child's blue eyes filled once more with tears. "Please?" he breathed desperately. "Fuiniel and I will be careful, we promise. Please let us go. We already crossed them once. Please, Lord Elrond?"

Elrond put his arm around the boy's thin shoulders and felt them trembling slightly with suppressed tears. "Child, I _am _sorry, but there is nothing that I can do. We must wait until the snows melt 'ere we can set out. I swear to you that I shall have you returned to your home as soon as 'tis possible, yet you must be patient a little while longer."

"Please, my lord," Legolas said in a trembling voice, "please may we go? I will have ada send a message as soon as we get home so you will know that we are all right! And—and we will be so careful…"

"Hush, little one," Elrond said softly, holding the slim child gently. "Spring is not long off. We will take you home soon. You have my word, the day the passes open—"

"But why can we not go now?" The prince's voice was muffled in his shoulder, but Elrond could still hear the tears staining it. "Fuiniel and I traveled them before…"

Elrond sighed. He did not want to bring up anything painful, but if it took harsh reality to make the elfling see the situation, he would steel himself to the task and hope that the child did not cry. "And you almost died in the doing so," he reminded the boy gently.

"But we would be careful this time," Legolas promised earnestly. "And Lord Glorfindel slew the _yrch_, and he has been riding on patrol to make sure that there are no others, he _told _me, they are all gone, so we would be perfectly safe and _please _why can we not go home?"

"Do not worry about the orcs, little one; we will be well prepared to thwart any attack they might be foolish enough to make on our travels…but we must wait until the mountain trails are passable."

Legolas drew back a bit and frowned up at the _peredhel_. "You said we?" he asked in confusion.

Elrond's eyebrows shot upwards. "Of course! You did not think that I would not see to it that you were properly protected on your return?"

"You mean someone would go with us?"

"Yes, little one," Elrond said, shaking his head. The little elfling was amazing. Not two weeks ago he had been carried in near death from fleeing the orcs through the Misty Mountains, and now he was ready to face them again with none but one other elfling beside him. _At least he is resilient_, Elrond thought wryly. _That is a good sign_. He knew that the child still needed healing—not physical, nearly all signs of the hardships the child had gone through had faded already, leaving only a few faint and fast healing reminders. But mentally…the little prince was still bleeding inside. There were wounds that would take far longer to heal than any orkish blade or whip could leave, and those were the ones that could not be seen. _And yet, despite what the child must be struggling against, he gives no thought to facing more danger all but alone!_ "Yes," the Elf Lord said again, "you will be escorted safely back to your home. Perhaps the Lords Glorfindel and Gildor will wish to be part of the guard, would you like that?"

Legolas nodded, then paused. "We will not leave soon, will we?" he asked sadly.

"Soon enough," Elrond replied softly. "As soon as 'tis possible. I have promised."

Legolas nodded again, then yawned.

"And you, little one, ought to be in bed. What were you doing up at this hour?"

"I could not sleep," the child replied quietly. "I miss my ada."

Elrond's heart ached. He knew what it was to lose a father, very well; he had gone through it thrice. He knew what it was to lose a mother, a brother…Eärendil, Maglor, Gil-galad, Elwing, Elros…Elrond understood loss. He cradled the elfling in his arms and rose. "Come, let us put you back to bed. I promise, you will soon see your father again. I give my word."

Legolas hesitated, searching Elrond's face. "Thank you," he whispered at last then looked away. By the time the Elf Lord arrove at the bedchamber in the healing wing, the child's eyes were glazed and he was at last asleep again. Elrond gently tucked the blankets around the small form.

Elrond watched the play of the moonlight across the little prince's pale face and hair and thought of when his children had been that young. Often Elladan and Elrohir had frightened him desperately, and Arwen too had been in her share of scrapes, but never had he feared for them as knew King Thranduil must feel for his child now. Were any of his little ones—even if they were, in truth, no longer so little—to go missing, he would be frantic. For orcs to be involved in their disappearance…

The Elf Lord truly regretted that there was no feasible way to send word to Greenwood that the children were safe. His was a father's heart, and he knew that Legolas's father must be beside himself for worry. That he could not reassure both child and parent grieved him more than he would have imagined. The child was _safe_, he reminded himself—

_But_, another part of his mind said, _Thranduil does not know that_. Elrond sighed deeply. So much sorrow, so much pain… Heart heavy, the Elf Lord turned away to seek rest, knowing that this night it would elude him.

……………..

The distant stars shone faintly through the branches, thick even in the chill of frozen winter, of the tall trees of Greenwood the Great. The pale light glistened on the snow that covered the grounds around the palace and clung to the ice-sheathed branches. It shone like tears on the thin railing of the balcony that was clutched tightly in the white-knuckled hands of the king.

Thranduil stared unseeing at the thin sliver of the failing moon. The Elvenking looked oddly fragile silhouetted by the white of the star-bathed snow. He seemed thinner somehow, smaller, as if he were slowly shrinking. Once straight shoulders slumped sadly and his proud golden head was bowed. He did not look as if he would have been able to remain standing had he not been tightly clutching the ice-sheathed railing of the delicate balcony.

The ice was chill, but no more so than the cold that gripped Thranduil's _fëa_. Once-fiery eyes were frozen and dead as they watched the moon slowly sinking into the darkness of the endless night sky peering though the gaps in the mourning trees. The trees wept sorrowfully for the loss that had been felt by Greenwood—and the loss that would still be felt, slowly drawing nearer. The little prince was gone, and all of Greenwood could see that their king would not linger much longer in the world that had stolen his son. He would not even have the chance to depart for Valinor; none believed that he would last until the snows melted enough to allow passage through the mountains…not that Thranduil would likely have chosen the healing of the Blessed Realms even if the option were presented. His child had gone to Mandos, and nothing but death held out any promise of comfort to Thranduil now.

A fallen star seemed to glisten for a moment as the cold light was captured by a slim tear that rolled down Thranduil's cheek.

His Legolas…

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**Reviewer Responses:**

**MCross –** terrors indeed…and yes, angsting time now! Glofindel says he's always good and accepts my pat on the head and Erestor's snicker with relatively good grace. Thank you!

**Aranna –** I can see it now, Drs. Elladan and Elrohir's Psychiatry Clinic for Depressed Elves…lol Sorry nobody was having much fun this chapter, but you still got your twins! …and their Twin Telepathy, which they occassionally let Arwen join in on bits of. Like when they're in trouble and want her to alibi them. Ew, lessons, major bummer. I'd say I hope I cheered you up a bit…but this wasn't really a "cheering" chapter. Hope you still have some time left even though I updated too late!

**Alma –** Your family's like Rivendell's? Wow, and you're still alive? I'm impressed. ;) Here's to healing—and twins!

**Deana –** banter is just so much fun:)

**kel –** well, they _were _happy…

**Jenetri –** why thank you! And a warm welcome, too. Enjoy the insanity.

**Coolio02 –** they are indeed. Everybody has to love the twins. Well, except for orcs, I guess…lol

**Zammy –** Aw, poor you. Where's the Elvish Way with All Good Beasts when you need it, hm? Thanks!

**East Coastie –** total agreement. And look! I threw in some sword-swinging, just for you! ;)

**poke-the-penguin –** Aw, poor you. I wish I could update more and make you un-bored, I really really do! And look, little Thranduil cameo. He'll come back in a few chapters, but there's a space here without him. There's not too much going on in Greenwood that I need to show right now, so going back there, while it would make Thranduil happy and stop trying to kill me, would just slow the story right now. Sorry! And thank you very much, I'm so glad to hear that you like it!

**Nikki1 –** wow, talk about synchronicity. I'm reading this review just after I finished typing the part with Legolas and Elrond. lol Hope the explanation suits! And thanks, very much:)

As promised, there's the angst, along with a Thranduil cameo and even some sword-swinging. ;) And look, the punctuation issues seem to have disappeared! Yayness! And even better, the Mistress of Evil is back and is going to be putting everyone through you-know-where soon! …what? Of course this is a good thing! Hmph!

As always, thank you all, and I'll see you next chapter:)


	23. The Plan

_Many apologies for the lack of updating. Basically it comes down to a combination of factors: the internet is evil and hates me, and thus I have now managed to kill both Internet Explorer and (partially) MSN Explorer and am now using Mozilla Firefox. Let's hope that one lasts. Also, it's getting near finals time, so busy busy busy. And then, I went and managed to get _Les Miserables _stuck in my head this week-end somehow, and have been playing/singing it nonstop since then. Thank goodness for headphones; they're probably the only thing keeping the roommate from killing me right now. Unfortunately, awesome as _Les Mis _is (favorite musical ever!), Javertt and ValJean are not exactly conducive to Middle-earth moodsets…_

_But anyway. There's an update now, right? Right. So enjoy.  
_

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Chapter Twenty-Three: The Plan

"Legolas?"

Fuiniel stood in the doorway looking very small. Her face was wan and her dark hair hung around it limply. Her dress was wet where snow had melted. It looked as though she had been crying.

"I wish to go home," she whispered brokenly.

The younger child slid from the windowsill and walked quickly over to her. He took her hand and looked up at her sadly. "I as well," he replied in a small voice. "I spoke with Lord Elrond, though, and he says that we must wait until spring's thaws."

Fuiniel's grey eyes sharpened and her brow furrowed. Her lips pressed into a thin line and when she spoke, her voice was tight. "Perhaps he will wait until spring, but I would leave now."

"But what can we do?" Legolas asked with a sigh.

"We owe Lord Elrond gratitude, not allegiance," she said determinedly.

Legolas hesitated, struggling with propriety, then smiled. "That is true," he said in a lighter tone. "Do you think we could go?"

Then it was Fuiniel's turn to hesitate; she seemed to suddenly think better of braving the mountains again, at least with Legolas. Then the confidence returned to her eyes. "Ay," she said firmly. "We traversed them once. We can do so again."

Legolas hugged the girl happily. Fuiniel barely stiffened, having grown used to—and almost comfortable with—the other elfling's friendship. "Oh!" he exclaimed excitedly. "We should ask Elladan and Elrohir for aid. Surely they will be able to find us a map and where our weapons are kept."

Fuiniel agreed after only a moment's debate. "Ay," she said slowly, "I doubt that they would inform their father of our plans. And I agree that they are most likely versed in the arts of subterfuge…"

………….

The night was still and muffled by a light snowfall that glittered dimly as it drifted down to coat the thin branches of Imladris's trees. The faint whispers floating around those treetops were hardly distinguishable in the chill night.

"How did you fare?"

"Alas, Glorfindel agrees that 'tis too risky to go now."

"Erestor says the same. For once they agree. This day should be recorded."

"Arwen, why did you even bother with asking Erestor?"

"Well, who else was I going to borrow the proper maps from?"

"You asked him for _maps? _Sister, are you mad?"

"Have you no concept of scheming, of subtlety? He now must suspect—"

"Both of you, do calm yourselves and give me some slight credit. I asked him not, I merely expressed both my interest and my confusion over ada's determination to wait for spring. Erestor was good enough to explain and to show me on the proper maps the distances involved. I offered to clean up when he was called away, as I had arranged he would be."

"Sister, that…"

"That is brilliant…"

"Worthy of us, even."

"I _have _learned one or two things from you in my life, dear brothers."

"Shh, say that not so loudly!"

"Should naneth hear you, Elladan and I shall be in such trouble."

"Elrohir, if nana can hear us, we are already in trouble."

"…Point."

"But getting back to the matter at hand…"

"Yes, brother, do go on."

"I approached ada."

"We know, remember, we were there when we planned who would speak to who. What did he say?"

"He was…less than amenable."

"Ah."

"He said that 'twould be irresponsible to risk the passes now, especially with two elflings still recovering from an ordeal."

"He worries too much."

"I wonder whose fault _that _is…"

"Hush, sister. Come, Elladan, what else said he?"

"That he could not in good conscience entertain thoughts of imperil their health through impatience. I received quite the lecture, actually, on the virtues of patience and so forth."

"Well, you know dear brother—"

"Hush, sister. Now is not the time to dwell on Elladan's rashness."

"_My _rashness? You are one to talk, dear brother."

"Where do you think that I get it from, _dear brother?_ You are the oldest, after all, and thus the role model."

"If he is the role model, we are all doomed."

"Hush, sister. And do not mutter, it is impolite and we can still hear you at any rate."

"Both of you, hush. We need to think."

"This is possible for you?"

"Arwen…"

"Shush. Stop giggling. You are going to get us caught!"

"Sisters… Ai, do not poke me!"

"Shh!"

………….

"But Arwen, someone has to make certain that we leave away without discovery."

"You sneak away all the time with no help from me," the girl pointed out with a frown.

"True; you should be more supportive, sister-darling."

"Elrohir, shush. Arwen, the difficulty lies in that we do not usually sneak out with two elflings in tow."

"I am certain that your talents will be able to accomplish that nonetheless."

"No, sister, listen. Usually when we sneak out…"

"We are not followed. Sometimes, but rarely."

"Occasionally Glorfindel or someone else will ride after us…"

"But more often ada and nana just sigh and shake their heads and prepare their lectures for when we get back."

"However, if Legolas and Fuiniel disappear, there will be quite the outcry."

"As soon as we return from Greenwood, we will be flayed alive, of course."

"But we are prepared for that."

"Sacrifices must be made…"

"Anyway, the point is, unless there is someone _here _to hide the fact that they are missing, we will not be able to get far enough."

"I doubt they will be able to ride at the speeds we often utilize when sneaking off."

"Or to last as long without tiring."

"They are quite young, after all."

"Only a little younger than you."

"Elladan, there is far greater difference between myself and Fuiniel and Legolas than between us. So if we are 'quite young,' you two must thus be—"

"Ah, yes," said Elladan quickly, "so you agree?"

"What? No, I did not say—"

"Excellent, glad to hear that."

"Elrohir—"

"Now, what you ought to do is—"

"Elladan—!"

………….

Fuiniel stirred at a faint whisper outside her window. Creeping on silent feet, she slid from the bed to crouch at the sill. Her sharp eyes made out the form of one the twins—she could not tell which—perched in the tree branches outside her window. The faint moonlight sparkled in his eyes—and his grin.

"We have it," he breathed. "We shall leave the day after next. Tomorrow, all you need do is mope and appear stifled by confinement."

"That should not prove difficult," she whispered back.

Elladan/Elrohir (she could not tell which it was) muffled a snicker before sobering to speak again. "We shall take care of everything else—gathering supplies, finding your weapons, hiding them outside the valley so that we can slip out unobtrusively and then pick them up later. No one will know that we plan to leave. We do this all the time…"

"I would never have guessed," Fuiniel murmured.

"Shush," said the twin with another grin. "Return to your bed. Leave it all to us."

Then with a faint rustle of leaves he was gone. A small smile on her face, Fuiniel slipped back into the large bed and snuggled beneath the covers, truly comfortable for the first time since she had come to Imladris.

………….

The day dawned bright and chill and beautiful enough that no one would have thought anything of the two elflings and the twins playing in the snow. Indeed, no one did, save perhaps to smile fondly. As soon as the children were out of sight, however, they snuck to the stables where Arwen had four horses waiting. She hugged the two Wood Elves and bid them Valar protect and farewell. Then she glared at her brothers and they tweaked her hair.

Trying to be unobtrusively surreptitious, the four young Elves calmly walked their mounts to the valley's entrance. Elladan and Elrohir told their younger companions to hang back a bit and, wearing identical grins, approached the hapless look-out.

Golradir was lounging in a comfortable nook between branches near the valley's entrance. He was whistling quietly to himself as he carved a small woodblock into the delicate form of a bird. He did not notice the stealthy approach of the twins until they were upon him.

Before the Elf knew what was going on, he had become enmeshed in conversation with Elrohir and Elladan, something that all the inhabitants of Imladris generally agreed was hazardous to your sanity. He did his best to keep up, but the twins spoke quickly and often in tag-team fashion. Eventually the conversation turned towards the reason for the meeting.

"Legolas and Fuiniel are feeling—anxious," Elladan whispered in Golradir's ear.

"Cooped-up," Elrohir added in the same conspiratorial tone.

"Restless," continued the older twin.

"Confined," the younger one chimed in.

"Smothered," Elladan nodded enthusiastically.

"So we thought to work some of that energy off with a short ride," Elrohir explained, seeing that Golradir's eyebrows, which had crept upwards during the discussion, had reached their apex near his hairline. The young Elf judged that they had digressed enough and it was time to get on with things.

"Just a little trip to lighten their spirits," Elladan began.

"Without smothering them in snow," his brother finished.

"Far enough away to escape the confines of father's house," Elladan said with a wry smile.

"But not to far that we would actually put any real distance between ourselves and Imladris," Elrohir clarified quickly.

"It would do their fettered spirits a world of good," the older twin said, face solemn.

"Yet we think adar would veto the idea. He does tend to be…" the younger's voice trailed off.

"Protective," Elladan supplied helpfully.

"Exactly," Elrohir agreed with an emphatic nod.

"Legolas and Fuiniel have been on their own for a while," Elladan began.

"And while they are happy to be safe again," Elrohir continued, then paused.

"They do feel slightly smothered beneath so many watchful eyes," his brother took up the tale.

"And due to our young age," Elrohir threw in.

"Not to mention our, shall we say, childish nature," Elladan interrupted with a grin.

"They feel more comfortable around us," his brother finished.

"You understand, I am sure," Elladan said mournfully.

"We do feel quite bad for them," said Elrohir sadly.

"We want to lighten their spirits any way in which we can," said his brother, grey eyes brimming with sympathy.

"So we have offered to take them for a brief ride" the other twin explained.

"We would hate to disappoint them." Elladan sighed deeply.

"Their little hearts would be crushed," Elrohir added, shaking his head.

"We shall return 'ere nightfall," Elladan spoke quickly.

"Long before," his brother chimed in.

"So you needn't worry—" the elder one reassured Golradir.

"We have no desire to miss dinner," added Elrohir with a wink.

"Or to worry naneth and adar," Elladan continued.

"They have enough to deal with," said Elrohir with a sigh.

"Our little sister, for example," Elladan rolled his eyes and shrugged helplessly.

"But we digress," said Elrohir with a casual wave of his hand.

"And we waste time as well," Elladan nodded agreeably.

"So we really ought to be off," Elrohir said calmly.

"We appreciate your cooperation," said Elladan with a grateful, dignified nod.

"We shall see you 'ere much time has passed," said Elrohir, echoing his brother's action.

"Unless we come in by the south path," his brother mused thoughtfully.

"True enough," the younger twin agreed.

"In which case we shall most likely see you at dinner," Elladan grinned.

"Fare thee well," Elrohir smiled and nudged his horse forward.

"We appreciate your discretion," said Elladan before he followed his brother.

"Come along Legolas, Fuiniel," Elrohir called to the waiting elflings.

The two children added their own farewells to Golradir as they followed the twins casually down the path. Golradir blinked, running the conversation through his head. After a conversation with Lord Elrond's sons, it was usually necessary to catch one's breath. The elflings had disappeared from sight before he fully worked out their quick words. The Elf groaned, suddenly realizing what the two troublemakers had talked him into. He sighed, and hoped that they wouldn't cause any disasters. If this became a repeat of the infamous silk robe incident, he was doomed. Elrond would string him up the tips of his ears.

Wish a heavy sigh, Golradir sad down and resumed his carving. This was going to be a long day…

* * *

**Reviewer Responses:**

**Alma – **Merci, and I will try:)

**Aranna – **ouch. Well, tell your mom happy (belated) birthday from me! Last chapter dedicated to her for that, how about? Yes. There's my present—I will steal your daughter from you while she reads. Bwahahaha! Hope you liked your cake… (and what can I say? I'm evil!)

**Deana – **nah, bird would get lost. Messenger birds can only go where they've been taught to, and Greenwood cut itself off…I have decided. Why? Because that idea would definitely distort the whole story. So nyah. That, and messenger birds just seem too easy a plot device…and I like doing everything the hard way:D

**cb – **Wow…that is so cool. Okay, the dislocating and dying (poor kitty! sniff) isn't, but the fact that I could get that much emotion is. Thank you.

**East Coastie – **Yep, put that in just for you! _wink! _Yep, gotta love sad, angsty mushiness…heh. Oh, and I mean it, we'll have a little bit of swordplay coming along nice and soon now. And then a little after that, lots and lots more! So hang on just a wee bit longer… ;)

**Laiquendi – **"Sneaky" is his middle name. Elladan's, too. Elladan and Elrohir Sneaky Elrondion. And yes, much lovely lovely angst—but gasp! My nutella, mine! My only, my _preciousssssssss_…and what kind of Mistress of Evil would I be if I caved to that demand? So… "Thranduil raised an eyebrow at his commander and asked, 'what does death have to do with anything?'" Just for you! lol

**Sadie Elfgirl – **Aw, I feel so evil now…tears and watery eyes and sadness…PURE EVIL I am indeed. Thank you. The two blondes appreciate the cuddles, and Fuiniel says that there's no way she's putting down her sword until you leave. Sorry, I tried. Yeah, I used to chew on my hair when I was really little, and the thought of the Echo of Luthien doing the same amused me. ;) And thank you so much, knowing I deserve the title makes me all happy inside!

**Nikki1 – **Mmm, hot cocoa…yum. Back together? Let me think about it. Um…no. Bwahahahaha! As for Fuiniel…wait and see m'dear, wait and see…

_No promises on when the next update is, sorry. A.S.A.P., of course…but the muses have taken a vacation while I enjoy the revolution, and the projects have been rearing their ugly heads…and I sound really funny right now, but that's because I was gesture-modeling for a classmate, and one of the poses caused the blood to rush to my head. I'm an evil model, what can I say…I do the difficult poses that throw people off. Hey, I _am _the Mistress of Evil…okay, head-rush, time for sleep now. Sleep and freezer-pops…which reminds me? This is not February weather. This is May. I swear, May…not that it isn't beautiful mind, it's just not February…_


	24. The Light of Youth

I'm finally back! Much rejoicing! Details will follow the story, but I won't get in the way of that anymore now. So, ewok dance of joy for all, and enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Light of Youth

The pale winter sun shone brightly through faint wisps of silk-spun clouds and reflected warmly off the frozen white that coated the once-green lands outside the valley of Imladris. All the world seemed frozen, waiting patiently beneath warm snow-covered burrows for the return of spring.

All save four small figures riding lightly across the snowy landscape. Their horses picked the way down the snow-shrouded trail with ease, not seeming to take note of the difficulty such terrain often led their kind. These horses trotted over the snow as easily as they would have through grass, turning ankle on neither hidden rock nor limb—for these horses were Elven-trained and picked their way with easy care. On their backs were perched such Elves as those who had skilled them so; indeed the two taller Elves upon the lead and rear horses in the small line had taken part in the raising of these particular beasts for long-lived though the horses of the Elves may be, still the Elves live longer yet and even these two who were yet little more than children themselves had seen many lifetimes of mare and stallion pass in the youth of their eyes.

Their names were Elladan and Elrohir, twin sons of the Lord Elrond _Peredhel _of Imladris. They did not seem like grave lords, however, but rather two youths enjoying a bright winter day. Yet while their bearing might not have been that which one might expect of stiffly dignified young lords, there was a casual nobility about their movements that would have given away their heritage's honor to any who saw.

Right now, however, the only ones there to see the twins were the young elflings riding between them, and grace was not foreign to their figures, either. Lighter and smaller of form than the two lithe Elf-twins, the Silvan Elves did not bear the terrible grace of the Noldor nor the faint traces of Maiar majesty that resided in Elrond's children. Their ancestry was one of trees and leaves and long starlit nights far from the Trees of Valinor. Their people had never come to the Undying Lands or looked on the beautiful doom of the Silmarils. But while the light of Aman was not in their eyes, the light of Middle-earth was. These children belonged to this land even more than did the twins—and yet this was _not _their land. Their home lay over the treacherous mountains which deep snows parted. Their home was not the secluded, peaceful valley of Imladris but rather the wild trees and deep forests of Greenwood the Great.

That was also their destination. For these two children were far from home not through choice but through chance. _Yrch _had chased them from their familiar woods and so desperate was their longing to return that even to the Elves spring would not come soon enough—especially to young Elves who have not yet learned the virtues of long-patience common to the more experienced of their people.

And so, contrary to the wishes of the Lord Elrond and in secret, they had slipped away from sheltering Imladris and now rode the Wild alone on the trails that would take them through snow and ice back to Greenwood the Great.

Perhaps those trails would also take them through _yrch_, but even dark little Fuiniel had no thought for the foul creatures in this bright sunshine. For a time, their troubles were lost in the joy of the ride and the free wind running friendly fingers through long locks and the merry sun sending warm, comforting rays down to caress the shadows on their faces and banish thoughts of darkness from their minds.

But only for a time.

………….

Celebrían paused a moment, pale brow furrowing. A suspicious look that seems to be common to all mothers of any race crept into her deep grey eyes and she took a few steps backwards, silken skirts silent in the empty corridor of the bedchambers. Celebrían had been up since dawn's first pale light had touched her pillow, but a slight mishap involving Erestor, an ink bottle, and the irrepressible Glorfindel had forced her to return to her room to change her dress so that the pale blue one she had worn that morning might be cleaned 'ere the black stain became a permanent addition to the outfit.

When she had left this morning, the bedchambers of her children had been empty, doors standing open as if abandoned in enthusiastic haste. She had smiled at the thought of her children happy and playing, undoubtedly with the poor little ones from Greenwood—whom her heart ached for, all the more because she was forced by her own empathy to avoid them as much as she could unobtrusively for fear of her presence causing pain—and gone about her day in maternally-satisfied contentment.

Now the door of the bedchamber belonging to her daughter stood almost closed. There was nothing inordinately suspicious in this minor fact; anything could have closed it, from a breeze down the hallway to a certain hasty gold-locked Elf Lord dashing away from an irate counselor. However, when one has been the mother of certain trouble-seeking twins for nearly a thousand years of Men, one learns that the slightest oddity is often worthy of being investigated, for invariably such a minute detail will be the only clue left by her two sons in their latest escapade. And while Arwen was not nearly so rambunctious as her older brothers, she was apt to be drawn into their tricks—not to mention that the young _elleth _was possessed of a strong cunning instinct of her own, even if she did not utilize it with such regularity as Elrohir and Elladan.

Taking care to walk even more silently than usual, so that even the frailest husks of mallorn leaves would not have shivered beneath her gentle footsteps, Celebrían glided slowly to the door and gently eased it open enough that she could peer into the room. Smooth forehead furrowed again as her eyebrows raised in surprise. While it was already but an hour or two until noontime, Arwen lay snugly in her bed, eyes glazed and sleeping, her mother judged, rather heavily. Sharp grey eyes darted around the room but could pick out nothing else out of place. Undaunted, she looked closer—ah, there it was. On the windowsill, almost too faint to be seen, there were traces of water, of melted snow. Celebrían examined her daughter closer and saw that her dark locks were tangled and that they, too, bore traces of wetness in their curls. While the soft blanket covered all of Arwen save the top of her head, Celebrían felt certain in her guess that there were like to be a few scraps of leaves in those tresses as well as remnants of snow.

The Elf-woman shook her head and sighed, but there was a wry smile on her face. Valar only knew what Arwen had been up doing this night for her to seek rest at this hour of the day, but if past experience was any indicator, the twins would soon find out.

Celebrían gently closed the door and stepped away. First she would go make certain that Erestor was not truly going to carry out any of the threats he had presented to Glorfindel during the ink-bottle incident that morning, then she would see if she could spy out what mischief her daughter had planned for the twins.

Of course by then, they would likely have already found it. She could hear the outraged cries and promises of vengeance already. Stifling a laugh for fear of waking her daughter, Celebrían glided quietly down the hallway, fond thoughts of her ever-youthful children dancing lightly in her thoughts. Those boys would never grow up. She had debated once or twice about sending them to Lórien to see if her mother and father would be able to instill the dignity and decorum in her two sons that had so far eluded them, but she doubted that such a thing could be managed by anyone less than Manwë himself, and a slightly irreverent part of her mind whispered that even the Lord of the Skies might have difficulty with such a task.

Then again, in a world in which darkness had yet to be defeated, perhaps the undaunted optimism of her ever-youthful sons was not only much less than misplaced, but quite dreadfully needed. Hope, after all, must never be lost—whatever the cost to furniture and dignity it might extract.

Tinkling laughter of distant streams echoed brightly down the corridors of Imladris as the silver-haired Lady passed.

………….

Elladan paused a moment and sniffed the air. The others, who were ahead of him, rode only a pace or two before Elrohir sensed his brother's hesitation and halted his mount as well. The elflings—safely sandwiched between the twins—saw Elrohir stop and did likewise. All three turned back to face the elder twin. A glance and a nod were enough to convey to Elrohir what he had sensed, but Elladan spoke aloud for the elflings' benefit.

"Snow comes," he said with quiet certainty. "It will be here 'ere midday's full sun."

Elrohir frowned and smelt the air as well while Fuiniel and Legolas did likewise in puzzlement. Now that the more naturally observant of the twins had pointed it out, his brother could as well taste the dry-watery chill distinctive to a coming snowfall on the crisp air. "Well," he said, eternally optimistic, "that should obscure our trail."

"It will also make us travel slower," his brother pointed out sourly.

"But it will do likewise to whoever ada sends to drag us back," Elrohir reminded him.

Elladan's eyes flicked to Legolas and Fuiniel and Elrohir read his brother's thought and could not help but agree. While they would likely have ridden on all but heedless of the snow until their horses protested were they alone, they could not push the elflings to do likewise. Elrohir nodded agreement; they would pick up the pace and meantime start looking for somewhere suitable to wait out the storm. Hopefully it would not last long, although some instinct was warning him that it would be a large one. He tried to ignore that; no sense worrying until it happened, anyway. It wasn't like either of them could persuade it to go away no matter how much they wanted it to.

"Then ought we not to speed our pace now to make up for the slowing we will experience riding through the snow?" Fuiniel asked with a trifle of partially-disguised impatience.

The twins held a quick conference with their eyes, then shrugged. "Ay," said Elladan mildly, "I suppose we ought."

The brothers shrugged to each other again, then nudged their faithful horses forward. If the elflings did not need to stop they would not—but they would make as much distance as they could now before the question arose, and they would be sure to watch the children carefully when the snow began to fall.

Elrohir was right, his brother decided with a slightly brighter outlook. Certainly the snowfall would slow their pursuers, not to mention obscure what little trail they made. _Especially if they fear to overtake us in the whiteness and pause to avoid passing our hiding spot during the storm_, Elladan mused then grinned. _Ada would never think that we would ride through it with Legolas and Fuiniel, after all._ The smile became a slight grimace as something else struck the young Elf. _And he will all but murder us when he learns that we did._

_Ah well_, Elladan thought ruefully, they would be in grave trouble when they returned to Imladris anyway. They might as well truly earn their punishment.

………….

Arwen sat up and yawned once. She rubbed her eyes, then sprang lightly from her bed, long night forgotten after a few hours sleep. Idly, she brushed at her dress—she had not taken the time to change, but had crawled right into her bed in the clothing she had been wearing through the night as she aided Elladan and Elrohir in their preparations. She wrinkled her nose at the shabby state of the thing now; she would have to put something else on before she could go wheedle a snack from the kitchens. The wrinkled and leaf-speckled fabric would raise eyebrows that were better left unsuspicious.

The girl sighed and chewed absently on a lock of hair, then frowned in distaste. Plucking a small leaf from her mouth she grimaced. She had forgotten about her scramble through the evergreen bushes beneath her window. Celebrían maintained that the bushes had indeed not been planted there in an attempt to catch her children when they snuck in and out of their rooms at night, but Arwen had heard from Lindir that they had been planted not long after the twins were born. She was certain that her mother had put them there to leave leafy evidence of late-night escapades in her children's long locks, but unfortunately the only one the leaves ever managed to catch was Arwen. Elladan and Elrohir could pick them quickly from each other's hair; Arwen had to rely on her mirror and somehow she never managed to get them all.

With a sigh, the young Elf plopped gracefully on the windowsill and began to painstakingly remove the bits of plant-debris from her hair with a fine-toothed comb. Then she froze and turned back to the window. Arwen's pale face went whiter as if in an attempt to match the thick snowflakes that were swirling before her vision. Her grey eyes widened as she took the snow and superimposed it upon the mental image of her brothers and the elflings riding down the paths away from the valley.

Arwen chewed anxiously on the end of a long lock as she watched the skies with troubled eyes. The snow was heavy and showed no signs of abating any time soon. Worry plain upon the girl's face, she watched the white flakes begin to pile up thickly on the already snow-covered ground and hoped—desperately—that they would not all come to regret their previously brilliant plan.

………….

Golradir jumped nimbly backwards to avoid treading on the young girl he had almost bowled over as he came around the corner.

"Your pardon, Lady Arwen," the Elf apologized. "I was distracted and paying little attention to where I was going."

_Although,_ Golradir noted, _the same might be said of you, m'lady. _The girl's eyes were distant, her attention obviously not on the gracious reply she was making.

"Pray Lady Arwen," Golradir stopped her before she could leave, "know you where your brothers be this eve? I did not see them at dinner, and—" He suddenly realized that it was entirely possible that Arwen might not know of the twins' bit of rule-breaking earlier this day and faltered. "I had been looking for them," he finished lamely.

Arwen seemed not to noticed his hesitation, but replied easily, "I fear you are like to have to wait some time 'ere you can speak with them, my Lord Golradir," the girl said apologetically. "They had a brief repast earlier this afternoon and decided to take the Prince Legolas and Fuiniel to the waterfall to show them the dance of the flakes in the spray and the sunset."

Golradir nodded and thanked her. It was a beautiful sight, and his heart warmed slightly at the thought of the good it must do the little elflings to see. _They must have come in by the South Gate after all_, he thought idly. Then he paused and glanced back as the slim form of Arwen going on her way down the hall. Why had she not gone with them? Then the Elf Lord shrugged; she had appeared distracted after all, and it was quite likely that she had not felt like it. He hoped the twins had not played some prank on the girl that had been taken ill; while it was rare for the siblings to argue, it was also dangerous, for such an event necessitated an all out war of jokes, pranks, and pratfalls.

Perhaps that had been what had distracted young Arwen—plotting revenge on her brothers. With an expression that was half amused smile and half resigned grimace, Golradir went on his way, as well. He hoped that such was not the case; the Homely House had barely recovered from their last stint.

Although he has to admit with a chuckle that seeing the honeyed locks of Glorfindel truly smeared with honey _had _been quite the sight when nimble Elladan had neatly avoided the trap his sister had set for him only for it to catch the Elf Lord that had been walking by his side. Stifling a laugh, Golradir shook his head and retired to his chambers. While such mishaps might be amusing, they were best viewed from a distance. He had no intention of being caught in whatever the children of Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrían might be planning for one another.

………….

The Lord of Imladris wandered the halls of his home curiously with a small jar of a thick, jell-like substance that trailed a sharp, minty scent behind him which hovered in the air after he had passed as if to mark the corridors down which he had already traveled. Elrond peered into the rooms he passed, his dark brows drawn into a puzzled frown. He nodded distractedly at the Elves he met but did not stop to talk—not until he saw a tall Elf Lord in whose golden locks the flickering torches that were slowly replacing the setting sun danced merrily.

"Good eve, Lord Glorfindel," Elrond began politely, thanking the Gondolin Elf in return for his greeting as well. Elrond devoted no further time on pleasantries, however, but delved to the heart of his current question. "When did you last see the children, and have you any thought as to their current whereabouts?" he inquired of the Balrog-slayer.

The healer could see from the mischievous glint that sparkled in the other's sharp eyes that Glorfindel was sorely tempted to reply with something he thought witty, along the lines of 'and which children might those be, my lord?' as he often amused himself by doing to poor Erestor. A stern look from the _peredhel _seemed to convince him that now was a poor time for such dissembling, and with a wry smile to acknowledge the Lord of Imladris's victory, Glorfindel replied apologetically:

"I have not seen nor heard from any of them since early this morn in the dining hall when they were planning adventures for the day. I regret to say, however, my lord, that I did not tarry long enough to learn their final plans, as Golradir had forgotten the carving wood he usually takes to keep his mind occupied while he watches the Entrance, and had asked me to fetch it for him so that he would not be late for his post."

"Ah," said Elrond. "Well, if you do see them, please inform them that I am looking for our Greenwood visitors. I wish to apply this ointment to the prince's wounds and I should like to examine them both and see how they are faring. They seem well, but I worry that all this exertion running all around the valley and trying to keep up with the twins—" Elrond had to pause to chuckle at the incredulous look Glorfindel turned on him. 'Keep up with the twins'? He should know by now that was entirely impossible. "Well, either way, I fear that it may become a strain on their systems if they push themselves too hard. They are not yet as well as they seem and the cold weather, especially, could still prove dangerous to them."

Glorfindel nodded; he was aware of the dangers cold could pose. "I am doing nothing of import, my lord; if you like, I could aid you in your search."

"It would be much appreciated," Elrond thanked him with a nod.

"It is no trouble," the Balrog-slayer assured him. "I have grown quite fond of those two. Well," he amended thoughtfully, "it is difficult to grow fond of Fuiniel, for she will not allow such an attachment—yet in spite of her efforts I do find myself more than merely sympathetic for both the children. I would be most glad to aid them." Glorfindel's serious mood vanished in an instant as he swept a graceful bow and grinned impishly. "And I am, of course, ever at your service, my lord."

Elrond sighed. "Sometimes I wonder if the Valar did not send you back simply to keep the rest of us from ever being able to take things seriously," he muttered not entirely insincerely.

Glorfindel's perpetually merry blue eyes turned suddenly solemn and calm. "Ay," the twice-born Elf Lord spoke quietly, "an important task when the Shadows try their best to still all light and laughter in the lands."

Then he was gone with one more impish, flashing smile, whistling merrily as he tripped lightly down the hallway. There was a blur of gold and he swung himself out the window, laughing softly to himself as the snow cushioned his fall. Elrond stood staring after the Gondolin Elf for a long while, suddenly seeing the Balrog-slayer in a vastly different light.

The golden light of stubborn cheer that refused to let the darkness smother it.

**

* * *

I just want to thank however many of you hung around through that awful hiatus and apologize for it ever occurring. I would also like to throw in a Han Solo Clause and say "it's not my fault!" **

**Reviewer Responses:**

**Nikki1 –** sorry to have kept you waiting so long, then. I hope your fist didn't get too tired! I'm glad you like my twins, they're a lot of fun for me to write, being the fan of snappy dialogue that I am. And hey, at least he's heading for Greenwood now…so that's a first step. Maybe.

**Laiquendi –** I bet they hired Elladan and Elrohir to film the first _Exorcist _movie. Noooooo not the nutella! Evil, wicked woman! Nice laugh, though. I have to give you kudos for that, so I suppose I'll forgive your nutella sacrilige on benefit of awesome evil laughter. But just this once.

**Deana –** Definitely too easy. And all of us angst writers like to do everything the hard way. ;)

**Wolfielee123321 – **actually, _orch _is the Sindarin singular of _yrch_. I looked it up, I swear! Honest! Cross my heart:)

**Zammy –** I am really sorry!

**Kirsten –** Quite all right; how could I complain when it took me so long _to _update this time? Ah, and a Terrible Trio is formed…

**East Coastie 1500 –** Circles, heck, they can talk an entire geomentry text book around their poor victims! ;) Twins are great. Trilogies are better! You should definitely write it! And then tell me, so I can read it.

**Aranna –** Well, that sounds like it was really boring. Hope they didn't catch you! Twins and angst; I should patent that as a remedy. Although I doubt Elrond would approve. Wow, yes, it was certainly a snowy winter. I got to see some when I went home—for spring break. Heh. Oh well, it was snow and I was happy because I hadn't seen any yet this year. However, I hope that as it's now April it's all done with that.

**poke-the-penguin –** I'm really really sorry! Stuck on Mary-Sues? I'm _really _sorry! As for the chapters—yeah, all I can say is that when I have either a lot of dialogue or a lot of tension but not much action they tend to get short because I don't want to bore people. Also those tend to go through a lot of revisions, so it _feels _like I've written more than I really have. I'm trying to stick to a minimum of three pages now, though—can't make any promises for the climax because I like evil cliffhangers and have a rather nasty habit of making short staccator stressful chapters around the climax. Hey, I _am _Mistress of Evil… ;) Anyway, hope this chapter was good at least!

**Coolio02 –** Me too! Especially because with my "grace," I likely would have fallen right out of that tree he was sitting in. And they certainly are, sometimes a bit too clever for their own good. ;)

_All right, the story, for those of you that don't know, is as follows: I went home over spring break, took the laptop to work on things on the plane. I didn't actually open it up on the way there because I coincidentally happened to be sitting next to a friend from SCAD also flying my way. When I got home, I turned it on to show my brother something…and nothing happened. Well, that's not quite true. Actually, what happened was the driver whirred and lights blinked—and the screen stayed black. Somehow my LCD light blew. So, since I'd also killed Internet Explorer last semester, we decided to reload the computer and see if that would work. We hooked it up to another monitor and dragged the files onto my dad's office network so I didn't lose anything (well, not much and nothing of real import) and reloaded it. Internet Explorer now works, but the screen still didn't. So, we shipped the computer (luckily still warrenteed) back to Dell. However, by then my break was almost over, and they wouldn't send it to a different address than the one they picked it up from. Yeah, lovely. So when the finished, they sent it home. Then it had to be re-mailed to me here in Savannah. It finally showed up and I've been sorting through my files and getting everything back in order for the past couple weeks as well as trying to keep up with my new classes. Finally I got everything sorted and, voila, here we are with an update. _Ostad_ should be updating shortly as well. But anyway, yes, deepest apologies for the long hiatus and I want to thank everyone who hung around. It's very much appreciated and you all rock quite a lot. Once more, deepest apologies and I hope to be back with more of this soon._


	25. Into Shadow and Snow

Chapter Twenty-Five: Into Shadow and Snow

White crystals danced with wild abandon as they slowly fell to earth, tiny sparkling stars of water plummeting to join the wide frozen sea that was steadily deepening over the land. It was a thick enough swirl of the fine diamond particles that everything more than a few feet away disappeared into the soft haze of snow.

Even the sharp eyes of Elves could see only a short distance, at least for those accustomed to seeing the horizon clearly. The four small figures plodding slowly along in the white vortex strained sharp eyes that could pick out individual snowflakes. Their horses were clustered nose-to-tail so that the animals could make out the creature in front of them through the storm. The only reason their mounts kept going as calmly as they were—and while they were visibly uncomfortable with the weather, they were not so discomfitured that they shied away or showed any sign of preparing to bolt back to a warm stable, although it was obvious that they would have liked to be there—was that they were Elvish-trained horses ridden by Elves. Had their riders required them to do so, they would have ridden through Mordor itself.

All that Elladan, Elrohir, Fuiniel, and Legolas required at the moment, however, was that they keep trudging through the steadily increasing snow. Each passing moment made this a harder task as the drifts continued to deepen while the flakes continued to pour from the thick clouds, heavy with frozen moisture, that hung ominously overhead, blotting out the blue of the sky with chill, dreary grays and icy, sparkling white.

The twins, despite barely being able to spare each other a look, consumed as they were with making certain that they did not stray from their path or direction of travel in the all-enfolding whiteness that was blanketing the lands, managed to exchange glances without glancing at one another. They were not pleased with the current weather, nor with the signs it showed of its future plans. Elrohir, who was in the rear of their small line, spent much of his attention on the two elflings riding hunched low on their mounts between the twins. Elrohir trusted his brother to watch ahead of them and prevent them from going off course just as Elladan trusted Elrohir to keep his eyes on the children and make certain that no ill befell their self-appointed charges—and, truth be told, recent friends.

As they anxiously kept half an eye on the snow, however, their worry increased—as did the storm. Privately both twins were amazed that the elflings showed no signs of flagging. But that did not stop them from feeling that shortly they were sure to bow under the ceaseless wind and freezing powder whipping around them. Elrohir and Elladan were not precisely cold; they were old enough that their natural tolerances were high. Their blood kept them from being uncomfortable, but they could easily tell that the weather was frigid. Almost cold enough to affect them—but not quite.

Yet, at least. If the storm kept increasing there was no telling. And as for the elflings…well, if the twins were cold, then surely the two children had to be half-frozen by now. Yet neither Legolas nor Fuiniel had looked back once. Elrohir shrugged and pulled his hood lower over his face and intensified his study of them. He spared but a glance for the skies although it was more like a glare.

He rolled his eyes and sighed, shaking his head. The storm's timing really could not have been more perfect.

………

Arwen was curled up on the windowsill, solemnly watching the light flakes of snow as they spiraled down through the air. Snow rarely fell directly in the Valley, and far less often in great amounts. She knew that this relatively thick fall meant a dramatic storm outside of sheltered Imladris. The young Elf-maid was perfectly still as she stared with drawn face and wide eyes. She seemed not to notice the wet flakes slowly melting on the dark velvet of her skirt nor clinging to the silken locks of her hair. A patch of that hair was currently being absently gnawed at between her teeth. Had her mother seen her, she would have received a disappointed sigh and a lecture.

Fortunately for the maiden, the elder Elf that knocked gently and entered her room was not her mother, but her father.

"Arwen?" Elrond spoke quietly, not wanting to startle his daughter, for she seemed wholly absorbed in whatever contemplation the snow she was staring at so intensely was causing.

She jumped only slightly and turned around. "Ada," she mumbled through a mouthful of hair. Elrond arched an eyebrow and she quickly removed the lock from her mouth and attempted to look innocent. Elrond smiled mildly and beckoned her to her feet. She rose and approached in a rustle of slightly-damp velvet.

"Accompany me to the twins' room, please," the Lord of Imladris said mildly. Arwen tensed almost imperceptibly but made herself relax instantly.

"Of course, Ada," she answered graciously, following him down the hall.

She turned around to look at him curiously when he paused in the doorway. Elrond gestured with one long-fingered hand. "Notice you anything…_odd_, my daughter?" he asked casually.

Arwen—so used to exceptional strangeness whenever her brothers were even remotely involved—did not even hesitate at the request but turned and surveyed the room. After a few seconds of examining she turned back to her father and shrugged. "Nay, ada," she replied. "Ought I to?"

Elrond smiled slightly and stepped into the room. "Well, I had thought that perhaps we ought to work on your observational skills, my daughter. I assume you would not mind a short exercise?"

"Of course not," she answered every bit as casually as he. Arwen knew well where this was going, but they would play their game. He would not ask and she would offer explanations without excuses; she would need to neither lie nor break a promise. And if he failed the game, he would accept not finding the answers to his questions; were she to fail, she would inform him of what he sought to know.

Elrond nodded slightly and studied the room a moment. Proceeding as if neither had any real interest but was merely studying an abstract problem, the _peredhel _walked slowly to the two beds and the dressers they were located next to. He opened the drawer on each that was second from the top and beckoned for Arwen to approach. "First we have the state of their clothing," he said without interest.

The girl looked in the drawers, then back at her father, her face neutral. "What state might that be, ada?" she asked calmly.

Elrond stepped forward and pointed to illustrate his words. "You might note that the nightclothes in this drawer are folded quite a bit sloppier than those in the other." It was true; those on the left would be wrinkled when their owner removed them next, although not so badly that a few shakes would not see the thin material returned to a more-or-less smooth state. The identical set on the right, by contrast, was folded crisply and were pressure to be applied to it just as it was, the clothing would come out of the drawer almost perfectly pressed.

Arwen examined them as she was bid, then stepped back and shrugged. "Elrohir is not quite so meticulous when it comes to housechores as is Elladan," she observed with detachment.

Elrond nodded. "That is true, and yet the beds appear made pristinely as if by the same hand," he mused.

Arwen shrugged again and spared a glance for the beds. "Mayhap they were," she said disinterestedly. "Sometimes Elladan makes both."

"Also true," Elrond agreed neutrally, "yet would not the one making the bed be the one to put the nightclothes away?"

Arwen hesitated this time, but only a moment before she found a proper response. "Perhaps Elrohir put his away before, as they were in a hurry," she offered.

"Unlikely, but admittedly possible," Elrond allowed. "Yes when they split the chores," he observed calmly, "they split them equally and the breakfast dishes are stacked as if each twin performed his own share here."

Arwen opened her mouth to speak, but could find no appropriate words. She looked around the room, as if hoping for a rescue from something within it, but none was forthcoming.

"I am afraid, my daughter, that you were too clever for yourself, yet not quite experienced enough. Do remember, I have been chasing after these two for close to a thousand years now. I have become quite familiar with them and their tricks, and smart as you are, dear Arwen, you are not so accustomed to sneaking out or causing trouble—at least, not for those other than your brothers."

Arwen hesitated a moment, still seeking a response, but then her shoulders slumped in defeat. "…well…all right. Yes. You are right, ada," she gave up. "But…why do you tell me this? Will not this knowledge make it to be that much simpler a matter for me to find trouble in future?" she asked in suspicious confusion.

Elrond's grey eyes misted with distance and the room of Imladris faded from his sight. A fond yet melancholic smile tugged softly at the Elf Lord's lips. "A little trouble can be good for elflings on occasion," he said quietly. "Elros and I…" his voice trailed off and he shook his head, returning from a far-distant past. He smiled at his waiting daughter and returned thought to the matter of present concern. "Might I now inquire as to where your brothers are?"

Arwen sighed heavily and her gaze strayed to the pale window. "I do not know," she said quietly. "None of us expected this snow fall, and we did not discuss what they would do were a storm to overtake them. I assume that Elladan and Elrohir did speak of it, yet not to me. You know their riding abilities as well as I do, ada, but with the elflings with them—I could not hazard a guess as to how far they would have traveled 'ere being forced to seek shelter from the storm."

There was silence for a few moments. Elrond stared at the back of Arwen's head as the girl watched the soft snowflakes gently spiraling through the air. The Elf Lord's world had suddenly tilted beneath his feet and he had not been expecting it. Now he struggled to catch his balance.

The twins were not camped somewhere in the valley. They had not snuck out with Legolas and Fuiniel for some innocent purpose that would have been restricted by the careful father and healer in Elrond; they had gone for…for what? For some purpose that doubtless the Lord of Imladris would have forbidden, if they had been riding since 'ere the snow began yesterday. Elrond had a horrible sinking suspicion as to what that purpose might be…but surely not even the twins would attempt _that…_

The Elf Lord closed his eyes and braced himself. These were his sons he was talking about. Of _course _they would dare. With a sigh and a cold twisting in his gut, Elrond opened his eyes. "Arwen," he said calmly in a voice he barely recognized as his own, "where, precisely, are they heading?"

He saw his daughter stiffen visibly as if she only now realized that her father had not known that her brothers and the elflings were not somewhere within the confines of the valley. She turned around swiftly, velvet and long dark locks flying wildly around a face that showed equal parts chagrin and distress. Elrond could see her debate inwardly for a moment, but the truth won out over whatever wild story he had seen dance through her wide grey eyes. "Greenwood, ada," she whispered and looked away.

Elrond could not find it in himself to chide her for chewing on her hair. In his sudden despair he envied her the comfort of a nervous habit. For the Lord of Imladris, there was only frantic pacing.

"Greenwood," he repeated tonelessly. Arwen nodded but could not meet his eyes. "They are riding to Greenwood."

The rug of his study would soon be worn through yet again.

………

Despite the steadily increasing difficulty of their travel, the young Elves had pressed on as evening's shadows deepened in the already dim world of the snow-shrouded sun. Shortly before dusk could have truly been said to have given way to night, Elladan halted his horse. The animal turned to look at him as if to ask, you intend to return to my warm stable now, do you not? Elladan had to smile slightly at the clear reprimand in his mount's eyes but he shook his head. The horse snorted, clearly unimpressed with its rider, and turned away haughtily. Elladan patted the faithful creature's neck in grudgingly accepted apology and glanced back to look at his companions.

Elrohir was grumpily trying to brush frozen snow from the limp hair hanging around his face and having little luck. Elladan raised an eyebrow at his twin that clearly and quickly communicated his amusement in an I-told-you-so type of way; he had suggested early in their ride that Elrohir might want to braid at least part of his hair and tuck it securely within his cloak and hood, but his brother had scornfully informed him that a little snow was not enough to so inconvenience _him, _whatever his obviously less-sturdy brother required in order to be comfortable. Elladan had grinned and shrugged; now the sight of being so clearly proven right lifted half-chilled spirits enough to make him grin again. Elrohir scowled, then ignored his twin and dropped his rebellious locks as if he had intended for small icicles to hang from his ears.

Elladan, smile still faintly residing in the corner of his mouth, turned his attention to the elflings and was surprised at what he saw. Fuiniel had her hood pushed back and was looking around with sharp eyes as if searching for some hint of whatever had caused them to stop. Her hands, ears, and nose were slightly pink with cold but rather than huddling within her cloak she was sitting painfully straight on the horse's back with her cape trailing half-forgotten behind her. One hand was wrapped tightly around the hilt of the long white knife that resided in her belt and from the snowflakes dotting it, clearly she had not released the weapon for some time. The girl would have impressed the most experienced of veterans—even Glorfindel, who seemed completely unaware of temperature no matter how frozen a lake might be—with her calm dismissal of the snowstorm around her as anything more than a vision-impediment. Elladan reminded himself that for all that Fuiniel was only a child she had spent a great deal of time as a lone warrior and doubtless her experience accounted for her demeanor.

He turned to Legolas and was at first relieved that at least one elfling was behaving more as expected, but he had to quickly revise that observation on a closer look. While the boy did have his cloak wrapped securely around his small form, rather than clutching at the warm fabric he was tightly holding the bow that Elrohir had found for him from when the twins were younger. He did have his head bowed slightly to keep the wind out of his face, but his eyes were bright and aware above cold-flushed cheeks and he was staring at Elladan curiously, obviously wondering why they had stopped.

Elladan, having expected the children would be only too delighted to cease their ride and attempt to get warm, was slightly taken aback. "Night will be here soon," he started a little bit tentatively, waiting to see what reaction his words would garner.

Fuiniel fixed him with her intense gaze. "Ay," she said calmly. "We must watch carefully."

Behind the children, Elrohir cocked his head in puzzlement and caught his brother's eye. Elladan shrugged slightly; he had no more insight here than did Elrohir.

"Shall we stop and rest a bit?" Elladan ventured again.

Fuiniel raised an eyebrow and looked at him as if he had suggested that they carry their horses and walk backwards while singing of Nimrodel or Gil-galad or Luthien. "Should we not wait for daylight?"

Elrohir looked at her, puzzled. "You do not wish to stop for the night?" he asked in confusion.

Fuiniel turned to look at the younger of the twins and Elladan could see Elrohir sit back slightly at the expression on her face. Elladan could not see it, but he could see it reflected in his brother's eyes: there was shadow there that made the encroaching night look pale. "The _yrch _roam at night," she said darkly. "It is best to be awake when your enemy is likewise."

Elrohir nodded, eyes slightly wider than usual, and Fuiniel turned back around. The twins' eyes met over the elflings' heads. They realized, for the first time, the true magnitude of what they were doing. This was not another prank, they were not simply sneaking off. They were about to traverse miles and miles of unfamiliar terrain, all but alone, in the dead of winter, possibly hunted by foul creatures of darkness. Elladan swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

Then Elrohir grinned. "Well, we had best move on 'ere our horses are frozen where we sit, had we not?" he asked cheerily. Elladan sighed and shook his head, but turned around and urged his mount forward. Elrohir was right, of course; he just wished that he shared his brother's optimism.

Ah well, at least they would not risk being buried in a snowdrift while they slept.

_Unless_, a small part of his mind started to whisper, but the Elf quickly shushed the practical, pessimistic side of himself. _Pretend you are Glorfindel or Elrohir,_ he told himself firmly. _Think only happy thoughts. Like how badly ada will yell at us when he catches up. _Elladan grimaced. _At least they would never suspect that we would ride on at night,_ he comforted himself. Then he, too, grinned.

He was on the verge of being cold, he was soon going to be tired, he was getting wet, he was starting to regret missing dinner, his life might soon be in danger, and he was in for a world of trouble when he got home.

And whether he wanted to admit it or not, Elladan was having the time of his life.

………

The sunlight spun wildly off the tumbling frail glass surface of the goblet as it slipped from Celebrían's nerveless fingers. Glorfindel's arm shot out and snared it before it could collide with the floor but the Balrog-slayer seemed to not be aware of doing so.

"Greenwood," he repeated slowly. Elrond nodded.

Glorfindel sank backwards into one of the chairs of the study, yet had the chair not been behind him it was likely he would have simply sank to the floor, his legs gone too limp to keep him upright. Celebrían gave a tiny gasp and clenched her hands together tightly. Erestor went stiff as an oak and paler than snow, pressing his lips together tightly. Elrond turned from the window to look back at them with dark grey eyes. "Ay," the Elf Lord said in a tired voice, "they ride to Greenwood."

Glorfindel absently placed the delicate goblet on a small table before dropping his head into his hands and sighing deeply. Celebrían pinched the bridge of her nose as if fighting against a headache and closed her eyes. Erestor shook his head and glanced upward, muttering something under his breath—perhaps to the Valar, perhaps simply to himself.

"When did they leave?" Celebrían asked heavily.

"Early last morn," Elrond replied tightly. He clasped his hands behind his back and resisted the temptation to start pacing.

"What weapons did they take?" Glorfindel asked, voice muffled by hands and hair.

"I have yet to look," Elrond answered him. "Knowing the twins, doubtless the entire armory has been subtly rearranged to prevent anyone from noticing on casual glance that their arms are missing."

"Arwen will most likely know," Celebrían added, eyes still closed.

Elrond sighed. "And to think I was so safely certain they were ensconced somewhere in the valley," he muttered to himself with a self-deprecating frown.

"Yet they would have halted when the snow began; they cannot have traveled very far," Erestor offered tentatively. The others said nothing, just exchanged hopeless looks. Erestor sighed and bowed his head; he had attempted to be hopeful, but he knew it was as unlikely a possibility as the others thought it. Nonetheless, he had had to suggest it.

"Is there any means of finding their trail?" Celebrían asked without hope after a moment.

Glorfindel glanced up at her and shook his head. "Nay, my lady. The snow will have long-covered whatever faint traces they would have left."

Celebrían sighed and slumped slightly against Elrond's desk. "They do not even know where they are going," she murmured quietly.

Erestor snapped quite still and moaned. "The maps…and I showed her all the maps…" he muttered, clutching his forehead in realization. The others glanced at him in confusion.

"Erestor…?" Elrond asked quietly.

With a start, the councilor realized he had spoken aloud. A look of anguish on his face, he spoke sadly. "Lady Arwen was curious as to the location of Greenwood and how far young Fuiniel and Prince Legolas had traveled to arrive here," he said with a sigh of self-recrimination. "Thrilled that the young _elleth _was showing such an interest in Middle-earth, I showed her the maps in great detail. No doubt she related it all to her brothers for their foolhardy quest. I am sorry, my Lord, my Lady." He hung his head.

"'Twas not your fault, Erestor," Celebrían said kindly. "Knowing my children, they would have found their way to what they needed one way or another. At least this way we can be confident that they are aware of the proper route; thus we may know in which direction they travel and need not fear that they will become lost somewhere far from the path on which we would search."

"I shall set out at once, my Lord and Lady," said Glorfindel, standing up briskly. He bowed and made to leave, his customary humor and vitality returned.

"Hold, Glorfindel," Elrond said quickly 'ere the Gondolin Elf could exit the study. He turned at the door, one golden eyebrow arched curiously. "Setting off in haste will not aid anyone." Hidden behind his back and within heavy sleeves, Elrond's fingers fidgeted as he restrained himself from pacing.

"My Lord, the sooner we set out—" the twice-born Elf Lord began impatiently.

"A few moments are necessary." Elrond started pacing as he spoke without being aware of what he was doing. "Celebrían, my love, I know that you want to go after them, but I would beg you to remain here. It has been ages since you last wielded blade or bow, and I fear that there may be need of using both 'ere this is ended and my heart would be troubled to think of you in peril." His footsteps paused only long enough to meet his wife's eyes. Celebrían hesitated, but at last nodded in acquiescence. While she wished deeply to join the search for her sons, she knew that Elrond spoke truth; she has never been a warrior and she had not practiced for a time that would be called long even to the Elves.

"Very well," she said quietly in both frustrated understanding and resignation.

Elrond smiled softly at his beloved, then resumed pacing. "Glorfindel, if you would be so good as to assemble a small force of volunteers and see that they are outfitted from the chaos that the armory is not doubt left in…?" With a quick bow, the blond Elf darted from the room. "Erestor, would you see to it that supplies and horses are prepared?" The dark-haired one bowed as well, but Elrond continued before he could move to depart. "I would further ask you to aid Celebrían in whatever will be required while I am gone."

Erestor nodded again and moved to leave than froze. "My Lord?" he asked in surprise.

………

Glorfindel fingered the sword strapped to his side. He had carried it ever since his return and while he was not quite as comfortable with it as he had been with the blade he had lost when he lost his life, he was getting there. A few more centuries…

He looked up from his musing as Elrond approached…dressed for riding with a heavy cape and a sword at his waist. Glorfindel had to blink a few times before he could convince himself that he was not hallucinating. The last time he had seen the Lord of Imladris so arrayed had been at the Last Alliance when Gil-galad fell and Sauron tumbled from his shadowy throne. He forced himself to stop gaping although he could not cease to stare. He started even further when he caught the look in Elrond's dark grey eyes.

"My Lord…?" he asked hesitantly.

Elrond glanced over at him as he swung onto his white horse. "I shall be riding with you, Glorfindel," he said coolly, then his eyes flashed. "My _children _are _missing,_" he said with a quiet fire that would have warned an army of orcs to retreat before he mastered himself again. He continued calmly, voice strained but under careful control. "My sons are riding into danger that they are unprepared for. And if they do not meet that danger, they shall have to face me."

Glorfindel fell silent with a nod and moved into place behind the _peredhel _as the rest of the Elves assembled near the entrance to the valley. He had not seen Elrond this angry in a very long time—

And the last time he had seen him this frightened had been the last time he had seen the healer bearing a sword. Glorfindel had to shake off a sudden melancholic chill but he could not help but wonder what precisely the other's foresight had shown him that had propelled him into coming along. Elrond's face was drawn tight and there was a distinctly pale cast to it that could not be entirely blamed on the dim day. His eyes were heavy with both worry and anger and each seemed caused by the other.

The Balrog-slayer adjusted his sword to make certain that it would be an instantaneous matter to draw it from its scabbard. Just because he was not worried was no reason not to be prepared, after all.

He glanced up at the sky, searching for the sun, but the swirling snow and dark clouds hit its fair rays from view. Under shadow the small company rode out from Imladris.

Under shadow they rode, and into shadow they traveled.

* * *

**Reviewer Responses:**

**Deana –** Yes and yes, and I'm sorry you'll have to wait more than previously but hopefully it won't be too bad.

**Alma –** Thanks, I'm glad the refresher worked all right. As for the twins, well…we'll see how far luck will take them, I suppose. As to the computer, my fingers are _definitely _going to be perpetually crossed from here on out. Thanks!

**Laiquendi –** Nothing like visuals to make people forget how long it's been… And Celebrían has to be a clever woman; look at her children! Just to keep up with one of them, but three…? lol

**Zammy –** thanks muchly, and I'll do my best!

**poke-the-penguin –** Yep, I'm alive, the computer just temporarily wasn't. Fortunately I've pulled a resurrection. I will hopefully not pull a month again, but it might end up being biweekly. SORRY! I don't like it any more than you do, believe me. Thranduil will be back pretty soon—I've fallen in love with the character, too—and I appreciate the sentiments. I'm glad I didn't die in a freak accident, too. ;)

**Aranna –** Logic…what is this logic of which you speak? lol Oh yes, lots and lots and lots of snow for our little Elves…and their horses. Yeah, Elvish horses are heavy too. They're pretty much normal horses (no Shadowfaxes) but they've been Elven-trained and bred so they're surer of foot and fleeter and things like that. A bit more than normal, but no Meras. And I'm glad your bones are hard. Ouch. That musta been very not fun. My condolences. And yes, with the twins, I figure ignorance really must be bliss! Or at least a good survival instinct.

**EastCoastie –** Shortness forgiven, I understand. And send away, I'd love to read—although I will admit that it will take me a while to do so… You can just send it to the e-mail in my bio, that's the only one I use. And many thanks:)

**Thanks to everyone again who stuck with the story, and again, apologies. I want you all to know that I really, really appreciate that you keep reading even with such wonderful delays as we just went through. Much love to all of you, and thanks again! I'd be more verbose, but I really need sleep before class tomorrow. Enjoy and good night:D**


	26. Waiting

I am so, so, so sorry that it took me so very, very long to get an update out. I really, really hope to do better in the future and I apologize so much. I cannot possibly tell you how much I appreciate you all sticking with the story with these horrendous periods of waiting. It seriously means so much, and again, I am so, so sorry.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Six: Waiting

The pale moon would have cast a ghostly glow on the white, snow-covered land below were it possible for the moonlight to travel through the blinding fury of the snowstorm that obscured the sky from sight. As it was, even Elven eyes could find only the faintest of glimmers by which to see, and they could see little but the snow swirling in front of them. As night wore on, the storm had only intensified.

Now the four young Elves seemed to be trudging through endless, shadowed white without truly going anywhere. They could not tell where they were, they could not tell how fast they were moving or how far they had traveled, and they had nothing by which to gauge their path. Were it not for Elladan's sense of direction, they would have been hopelessly lost. Of course, until the snow abated, it would be impossible to tell whether or not his belief that West lay over their shoulders and South was somewhere to their right could not be verified. And even Elrohir was less than certain that his brother's ability would be enough to keep them heading the proper direction in this impassable blizzard. Elladan had worried the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood but his confidence was still nowhere to be found.

No, that was not entirely true. He knew where his confidence was; it rode but a few paces behind him, no doubt whistling to himself, although it was impossible to hear Elrohir over the silence of the stifling snow. Perhaps if Elladan could have heard his brother he would have felt less unsure of himself, but the snow swallowed all sound save the relentless wind that beat icy drops against the four bowed heads that urged their mounts steadily onward, into the smothering snow that covered all the land in a pale shroud.

………

Suddenly Elrohir gave a harsh, wordless cry. The wind snatched the voice roughly from his throat, but Elladan sensed his twin's shout more than he heard it. Telling his mount to stop, he turned abruptly on the horse's back just in time to see Legolas slip from his own steed. Both twins leapt from their horses but Fuiniel was faster, hitting the snow almost as soon as the younger elfling. She pulled Legolas to his feet before he had fully landed as the twins raced over on either side of them.

"I am all r-right," they heard Legolas say quietly. "I—I am sorry. I s-slipped off s-somehow," he stammered apologetically, guilt and shame making his pale cheeks flush as the cold made him shiver.

"Worry not," Elrohir assured him quickly.

"'Twas no harm done," Elladan added.

"I-I am s-sorry," the child stuttered again, upset at what he clearly saw as a personal failure.

Elrohir clapped him on the back. "I tell you again, 'twas no harm done," he grinned at the shorter Elf. "Come, back on the horse and off we go."

"You are unhurt?" Elladan asked with a withering look at his brother for not thinking to ask.

Elrohir rolled his eyes at his twin to cover his own embarrassment at the slip but Legolas nodded determinedly.

"Ay," the elfling replied firmly through slightly chattering teeth, "I am fine. We ought to be off again."

Elladan and Elrohir held a silent conference with their eyes, then both shrugged and swung smoothly back onto their own mounts, who gave the twins identical snorts of disbelief at their intention to push on through this atrocious weather. "Very well," Elladan said, glancing back at the elflings. "We shall go further, but be careful, all right?"

"Tell us if you—either of you—do not feel well," Elrohir commanded firmly. "This weather is doubtless ill for all of us, but you two especially so, and it would not do at all for you to fall under the weather, so to speak, on the journey, do you not agree?"

Elrohir received no grins for his—admittedly poor—pun, but only serious nods as the elflings mounted their own horses. He shrugged and Elladan shook his head, as much to state his opinion of Elrohir's humor as to clear his face of snow.

Fuiniel, eyes full of concern, whispered something to Legolas but the wind stole whatever she had said, as well as the boy's response to her comments, before either twin could make out their words.

Elladan turned back to the front and, hoping strongly that they were heading in the right direction, set out again, the others following close behind. He knew that if they became separated, they would be in far more trouble than he wanted to contemplate right now.

If only he knew where they _were _he would feel a lot better about _all _of this.

……..

"My lords," Gildor had to shout to be heard through the thickly swirling snow, "think you that we ought to seek for shelter?"

Elrond and Glorfindel ignored Inglorion completely, if they even noted his words. The blond Elf's sharp eyes darted quickly, probing the blinding storm as if he could see through the white curtain if he but stared hard enough. The Balrog-slayer seemed otherwise unaware of the storm swirling threateningly around them. His hood was back, his long hair streamed loose and ice-coated in the wind, and his light cloak flapped heedlessly behind him. Gildor noted that his kinsman had yet to release his grip on the intricate hilt of his sword.

Lord Elrond, likewise, was paying no attention to the dangerous weather. From the few glances Gildor had caught of the expression on the Healer's face, he personally thought it a wonder that the snow did not simply melt away at Elrond's wrath. Gildor shivered, and not from the cold, frigid though that was. A chill that had nothing to do with the snowstorm whipping about them crawled up the Elf's spine and he found his hand hovering unconsciously a hairsbreadth from his own sword. He pulled his hood down further over his face and tried to ignore the creeping feeling that something was very, very wrong…

………

Elrohir abruptly stopped his horse. The others felt the tug of a slim rope that had been tied in turn to each elfling's wrist a few hours ago when visibility had dropped dangerously low. One by one they, too, halted their mounts and turned to peer through the blinding whiteness at the young Elf Lord. They clustered together, their sharp eyes barely able to make out their companions' faces, even as close as they were now.

"This is impossible!" the younger of the twins said, speaking loudly to prevent the storm from stealing his words. "We are unable to see anything—_anything!_—in this mess. While I well know you can find your way nigh anywhere without qualm, even be you blindfolded, brother," he said to Elladan with the barest hint of a smirk behind the icicle-locks that half-obscured his face, "this is somewhere we have never traveled 'ere now in most baffling conditions." Elrohir's intense grey eyes fastened sharply on his brother's. "Tell me," he said, deeply serious, "_do you know where we are going?_"

Elladan hesitated. Elrohir waited patiently while his brother closed his eyes, took a deep breath of the snow-choked air, and _searched_. Fuiniel shifted her feet and fingered the hilt of her sword, her dark eyes glaring into the snow as if it were a curtain designed specifically to limit her field of vision. Legolas shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around him, trying very hard not to shiver. Elrohir was as still as Elladan, his gaze locked sharply on his twin while the snow fell about them. Finally, Elladan opened his eyes. His shoulders slumped slightly and he shook his hooded head.

"Nay," the older twin said softly. "That is, I _believe _I do…but as you said, 'tis not somewhere with which I am in any way familiar, and the wind and strength of this storm may well cause me to misjudge."

Elrohir nodded. "As you say, then. Shall we chance a search for shelter?"

Elladan shook his head again. "Where would we look—and for what? And the search may well carry us further off course."

"If we are off course," the younger twin put in quickly.

Elladan shrugged, uncertain. "I am unwilling to risk it."

Elrohir mimicked his brother's shrug, unconcerned, and tried futilely to brush snow clumps from his own hair and that of his horse, who snorted at him for his efforts. "'Tis your decision." Dropping a small bag from his back, the young Elf quickly searched through it. He came up with four apples, slightly shriveled from storage and cold, and offered one in turn to each of their horses.

Elladan lifted Legolas down from his mount before the young prince could protest. "Cup your hands and give a few drops of this to each of the horses, please," he asked the child, taking the small bottle that had hung from his shoulder and draping its strap around the small elfling's neck. Legolas nodded seriously and turned to the first of the faithful animals.

Fuiniel looked supremely unhappy as she slid from her mount but held her tongue. She certainly did not know where they were, and every step they took off course was more time wasted, yet so was every pause, and to do so at night… The young Elf-maid's hand tightened firmly around the hilt of her sword as she resolved that she, at least, would not sleep tonight.

Elrohir caught the determination in her eye. "Do not worry so," he assured the child and clapped a hand to her snow-coated shoulder. "No orcs roam this close to Imladris. Save your watchfulness for when we draw nearer to your own borders."

Fuiniel and Elladan each raised an eyebrow in almost identical expressions of disbelief, but it was the elder twin who spoke first. "And yet Lord Glorfindel encountered a band but a little distance beyond this when first he met our young companions."

"Encountered and dispatched," Elrohir pointed out. "And no one had seen any sign of them since."

Elladan frowned, looking eerily like his father in one of Elrond's sterner moods. "Still," he began, but Elrohir interrupted.

"All right, all right! I see your point, O Cautious One!" But while his tone was mocking the younger twin's eyes were serious and he checked to see that his sword was still secure at his waist.

Elladan rolled his eyes and turned to see that the horses were as comfortable as could be, murmuring an apology for the wind and lack of grass. His mount blew a miruvor-scented raspberry at him and lipped his elbow, as if to say that he was an extraordinarily dense young Elf if he thought she could possibly be comfortable out here in this most inconsiderate storm when there was a warm and cozy stable with no wind and plenty of greens she could be enjoying instead, warm drink or no warm drink. Elladan rolled his eyes again and patted the mare's neck affectionately before settling himself next to his brother in the snow.

It wasn't long before a considerable drift had built up at their backs and, while it was slightly icy, it did cut the wind a bit. Wrapped snugly in their light cloaks, Elves and horses settled down to wait for a lull in the snow.

………

The pale white flakes drifted down in slow swirls, dancing softly in the light wind that penetrated the protected valley of Imladris. Celebrían stood still and silent as a shadow on the balcony as she watched the snow. Her hands were clenched so tightly together that they had gone completely white at the knuckles and her fair face was furrowed in concern. Her silver locks hung loose about her pointed ears and half-obscured her visage from view, although the pale curtain did nothing to shut out the sight of the deepening snow. It was growing thick, and a thick snowfall in Imladris meant storms outside the Elven valley.

Outside, where her sons were. Alone and unprotected, with no companions save two very small elflings they would have to care for. Celebrían knew very well why she could not ride to find them. While once a moderately talented archer and decent enough with a sword, it had been a long time indeed since she had last wielded either. She was a very good rider, light and nimble with a strong connection to her steed, but speed and surefootedness would do little good if the worst came to pass.

The worst…Celebrían refused to allow herself to think of that. Better by far to still her thoughts and lose herself watching the cold wet whiteness drift slowly past her clouded grey eyes.

The Elf-woman stirred slightly when she felt a faint presence join her side. She glanced down and managed a small smile for her daughter, whose face was as drawn and pale as her own. Arwen slipped a slim hand in hers and together mother and daughter stood and watched the snow fall, neither speaking, both trying not to think…not to fear.

………

The shadows gliding slowly across the floor made as much noise as Tiraran did when the Elvish _gon _silently paused in the doorway. Nonetheless, Tarlas noticed his presence. The advisor turned to regard his friend with hooded eyes. Tiraran could see only hopelessness and heartbreak in their grey depths. Sighing, the warrior moved smoothly to join the other where he sat a lonely vigil at the edge of a bed that held the last remnants of faded hope.

Tiraran found that he had to swallow once or twice 'ere he could find voice with which to speak. His words were hushed, little more than a whisper, as if he feared disturbing the rest of the frail figure he looked down upon. "There is still no sign of Aglarmegil," he told Tarlas softly. "I have patrols searching, but…"

"He is lost to us as well, then," Tarlas sighed sadly.

Tiraran could not bring himself to reply with anything more than a nod. "I…would wager, from what I know of him, that he went searching for some clue as to the fate of…of our prince…" Words failed the warrior and he looked away from the silent figure in the bed.

Tarlas said nothing for a moment, but at last he spoke. "He would do so, injured as he was?"

"Ay," Tiraran replied firmly. "Aglarmegil is…_was_…always too hard on himself. I do not think he ever even forgave himself for the lives lost in the…Alliance. Guilt rides hard…rode hard…on his shoulders."

Tarlas nodded. He had not known the missing Elf well, but Tiraran knew every one of his warriors as if he were brother to them all. He would not be wrong about something so important.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. Their gazes were dragged in spite of themselves back to the silent figure before them. Their eyes were dull and lifeless, as if reflecting the shadow that had fallen over—that had, indeed, consumed—their lord.

"It will not be long, will it," Tarlas murmured.

"The snows will keep the pass bloked another month, perhaps two," Tiraran replied quietly.

They stood in silence, gazing with empty eyes at the fading echo of their _aralor._

"It will not be long," Tarlas whispered. Tiraran could only nod.

* * *

**Reviewer Responses:**

**Swasti –** Not at all, and I'm just sorry you caught up only to have me fall behind. As for Thranduil, well…hey, at least he made another appearance. Kinda…

**kel –** gotta love the elfings. No wonder Elladan and Elrohir never (as far as anyone knows) did the whole marriage-parent-kids thing, if this is what they dealt with when they were young! ;)

**Sadie Elfgirl – **Thank you! Yes, more Elrond next chapter, being very dangerous methinks. And sorry, the kids and the twins are just a little, uh, dense. Hopefully they'll eventually figure out that they're morons, but you never know—stiff necks of the Elves, and all that…

**Aranna –** Well, the infamous "they" are just evil, then. Go bash them in the head with a sword, or something. Yep, Icicle Elrohir, that can be his new name. Who knows, maybe he'll start a new fashion? And I am _so _glad that everybody likes my Elrond! Thanks!

**Laiquendi –** I live to please, my dear. And so, just for you, POOF: Thranduil. Erm, more or less, at least…

**EastCoastie –** Look, look! Thranduil! There was a Thranduil sighting! From a, ah, certain point of view, that is… Okay, so it was lame, but hey, at least he was there. Not my fault the big guy's not too interesting to be around just now. Er, okay, maybe it is, but you know what I mean! Oh, and thank you again!

I'm sorry, between shuttling around to see all the people I haven't since Christmas pretty much, and then working full-time at the comic book store, I just had trouble finding time to write. I'm really, really sorry—and then I had to come out with a sort of transitional chapter that pretty much did nothing but preserve status quo and move us along to next chapter…seriously, I'm on my knees here!—forgive me? Next chapter should be pretty cool, I promise! There'll be more than "the snow got worse" next time, I mean it! And I'll really, really, really try to get it out soon, okay? I appreciate your interest so much, and I'm sorry to do this to you all, I really, really am, believe me. Deepest most heartfelt apologies! SORRY!


	27. A Catch in the Inlay

_Erm, right, I know I promised a really cool chapter, and I think this one's pretty cool, even though it does _nothing _whatsoever story-wise. Sorry about that; I've been having muse trouble. Umm…go enjoy the Glorfindel-fun?_

Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Catch in the Inlay

Glorfindel swore quietly to himself and squinted up at the sky. Or, more accurately, he squinted up at where the sky ought to be, but wasn't. All the Elf Lord could see was a dim swirl of whiteness descending from the place where there ought to be bright, twinkling stars and a light, welcoming moon. Instead, there was just this accursed white cloud. It was like riding through fog, but fog that had coalesced into a multitude of puffy droplets that blew and twitched and tumbled in the wild wind that bore it.

Glorfindel was sharp-eyed, but in this weather that meant little more than that he could see Lord Elrond in front of him and Gildor behind him. He could make out the form of another Elf and steed to his left, but through the snow he could not discern a face beneath the low hood. The Balrog-slayer grimaced and strained his ears, searching for the slightest sound, but through the whistling wind he could barely hear his own horse's footsteps as the faithful animal plodded cheerily through the heavy drifts.

He debated about whether or not he ought to force Lord Elrond to halt, idly running his hand over the hilt of his sword. His fingers caught slightly at a small imperfection along the inlay and he could not help but smile. He could never manage to find the blasted spot when he looked for it, but it was still there, even after all these years…

………….

Glorfindel idly stroked his sword hilt, frowning when his fingers brushed over a minute imperfection at the inlay. Slim digits searched by feel, but could not locate the slight catch again. He was about to unsheathe the sword and hold it up to the light when he stopped himself. With a sigh, the Elf Lord forced himself to release the hilt. There was nothing wrong with the sword, it was perfect—better than perfect, almost. Yet it still wasn't right. It didn't _feel _right in his hand. It wasn't _his _sword, not yet, not truly. No matter how many times he swung the elegant blade, it seemed to Glorfindel that it would never fit his hand so well as his old sword had… But that one was lost, buried forever in the smoking ruin of the long-vanquished foe he'd felled by falling. The Balrog-slayer grimaced and dragged his attention away from his sword-hilt, away from the past that the hilt constantly reminded him was over, and returned his thoughts to the matter at hand.

The Gondolin Elf tucked a few strands of flower-gold hair behind a sharply pointed ear and focused on another whose hair called to mind the distant rays of the sun. Certainly said Elf had the strength and will to match his locks. And if the sun had a voice, no doubt it would sound much like he did in this moment: authoritative, unyielding, impatient, confident, and full of suppressed flame and wrath. _Orophor_. Glorfindel's lips twitched into a combination of wry smile and tired grimace. They had done this dance often enough that even without being a participant the Balrog-slayer knew all the steps. And partnered against the sun-king was ruler of the stars and moon, Ereinion Gil-galad himself. Grey eyes snapped at each other in the dim tent; jaws clenched, shoulders tensed, words lashed, wills burned strong and straight.

Letting the argument drift past the edges of his awareness, Glorfindel mostly tuned the two kings out as his sharp gaze flickered to take in the other occupants of the tent. There, standing discreetly behind Gil-galad, was young Elrond, looking solemn and dignified. A faint line of worry furrowed the _peredhel's _brow and his grey eyes were fixed on Orophor as if the young lord hoped to will Greenwood's king to submit to caution by the sheer force of his will. Glorfindel would have told him not to waste his time. No herald, no matter how stern, wise, or willful, was going to make Orophor yield, not when most of the time Gil-galad himself could barely scrape the faintest of compromises.

The Balrog-slayer's gaze slipped past the proud king to young Thranduil, standing politely by his father. The prince's face was calm and smooth but his blue eyes kept darting between his father and Gil-galad and there was a faint tenseness to the youth's jaw that told Glorfindel that the young lord could have easily held his own in this argument if he wasn't dutifully holding his tongue.

Glorfindel bit the inside of his cheek to restrain a snicker. Elrond and Thranduil both clearly thought that they could convince their respective lords to compromise, but equally clearly thought it ought to be the other side who capitulated first—and either way neither would say anything to interrupt his king.

At that, Glorfindel's eyes flicked towards the third king within the tent, one whom, the Balrog-slayer was surprised to note, had yet to add his voice to the discussion. Grey-eyed and grey-bearded, the only consent the king representing the mortals in this desperate last alliance of Elves and Men made to his age was to sit rather than stand as their battles were planned and coordinated—and, occasionally, debated. For his was the blood of Númenor uncorrupted, and some sadness seemed to whisper to Glorfindel that such Men would not again walk this Middle-earth, whatever the outcome of this war.

But even in the deepest darkness despair had no hold over the golden Gondolin Elf. Whether or not Elendil would come again, he was here now, and his sons would come after him just as bold and good and powerful. No, he would not come again, Glorfindel knew, but that was the mystery of mortals. Ever changing, ever growing, they did not last but neither did they fade. Glorfindel smiled slightly as he regarded the King of Men but his smile froze 'ere it fully formed. Elendil, seemingly thinking that no one would be watching him over the argument betwixt his Elvish counterparts, had allowed proud shoulders to sag and bright eyes to close. His grey head bowed and Glorfindel suddenly noticed how deeply the lines were engraved in his noble face. He suddenly noticed how old Elendil was and how much the man had endured in his short life, more than most mortals could fathom falling under, let alone standing up to. The corruption of his fellows and persecution at their hands; the destruction of Shadow-tainted Númenor; their desperate escape from a doomed perversion of glory; the hardships of starting a new kingdom in this Middle-earth…all that, and now the Man was facing an almost hopeless last struggle against the Dark Lord responsible for his homeland's fall. No wonder he was tired. But he could not allow his exhaustion to show, Glorfindel knew. Not to his soldiers, not to his allies…not even to his own sons. They were all looking to him to be strong and unwavering, to be their hope. He could not show weakness, show age…

Glorfindel respectfully turned his eyes away and said nothing. He did not think that any of the others would understand. His gaze flashed to stern Gil-galad, unbending Orophor. It caught on stuffy Elrond and stubborn Thranduil, standing behind their kings as if they were seconds at some silly mortal duel, ready to leap to the attack should their lords falter. Glorfindel couldn't help but smile at how bizarrely young they looked, like elflings playing dress-up in their father's armor.

Elrond was pale and resolute in intricate steel and silver, his dark hair drawn smoothly back in a half-ponytail tied tightly past his ears. His dark blue cloak hung straight and smooth at his shoulders, only the faintest hint of wear trailing at the hem or hiding in the delicate but rushed stitching repairing recent tears. At his waist was belted an ancient blade, but in spite of the harsh use it had seen already, his armor seemed newly-forged. It was made in old styles, and perhaps it was old, but to Glorfindel it seemed merely camouflage to disguise both its youth and that of its wearer.

Thranduil was sharp and bright in leather shaped like leaves, shaded the color of his forest at the dying of summer's green. His golden locks hung loose, only the front edges caught in braids pulled to the nape of his neck to keep the strands from tangling in arrows. The dark green cloak hanging from his shoulders fluttered slightly as the Elf shifted with restraint. His armor showed some signs of age and battle but the sword at his belt had seen but little use and all of that recent.

Even the proud kings seemed somehow young. Orophor wore armor nearly identical to his son's; simple leather, frail under the heavy blades of orcs. It showed heavy evidence of Orophor's reckless courage. Right now his left forearm was wrapped in tight bandages beneath a hastily-repaired gauntlet, but if the pain affected Greenwood's lord he did not show it. His cloak was pinned loosely to his shoulders by a leaf clasp and swung back and forth with his sharp movements. The sword at his belt was battered, but whether that was due to age or simply to the ferocity of the Elf-King's attacks Glorfindel did not know. Two thick braids of gold hung down along either side of his face nearly to his waist and gold poured fluidly over his shoulder, then caught in another braid starting halfway down his back. About his head was braided a thin circlet of leaves, somehow still green although the insidious Shadow was sneaking hints of brown along their edges. He wore no helmet; none of the Greenwood soldiers did. They were lightly armed and armored. In truth, Orophor himself seemed to be their most potent weapon. Glorfindel wondered vaguely what would happen were the king ever to be cut down in his recklessness. Would Greenwood falter and fall, shattered into a retreat? Or would they instead be borne onwards by a wrath almost too terrible to contemplate? For all that the Wood-Elves seemed plain and simple next to their more tragedy-kissed kinsmen, Glorfindel had seen fire in them to rival…others. And yet behind that fire there was not a long-lost Light, no endless struggle against Darkness too foul to name, no ageless but unending time. They did not bear the weight of darkness, of exile, that hung heavy over too many of their kin. Glorfindel did not know how old Orophor was, did not know if he himself had turned from the path to Valinor; if he had seen the first stars, the first sunrise…but if he had or not, there was no age in his eyes. He had not grown tired as the Ages passed. He was, at least it seemed to Glorfindel as the Balrog-slayer looked upon him then, unchanged from youth. Proud and unbending, but not enduring so much as unworn.

Next to him, Gil-galad seemed for a moment a perfect echo of pasts long gone. He was dressed in armor of an earlier time. The intricate leafwork, the delicate star designs, these were the products of artistry, not war. And yet war now filled every inch of him. The gleaming silver steel was dull in patches where orc blades had found it and Shadow fingers had scraped it. The bright cloak was still a beacon on the field, a light of blue and red to those surrounded by blackness, but its hem was ragged and worn patches stood out in the candlelight. An old sword—one of Gondolin make, ancient and perfect—hung at the Elf-King's belt, and in the corner of the tent rested Aiglos, the Spear. Gil-galad seemed to have walked out of the First Age to come to the aid of the Second…but while old wrath burned in his eyes and his memory stretched back to earlier battles, he had not seen the beginning. He was no younger than any of them had been when first they rode against Sauron's old master, but to Glorfindel's eyes he did not look old enough to be here. To the Elves and Men gathered for this battle, Erenion Gil-galad might as well have been one of the first enemies of Morgoth, and to be sure, he looked the part. Grave and stately, hair pulled back in a golden clasp of ancient workmanship, grey eyes shinning through the Shadow…but the Shadow he had seen was young, too. Gil-galad stood proud and firm before Sauron, he rallied their people, he was a legend walking…but it was such a young legend. It seemed as if the people, so desperate for some assurance of victory, had bestowed upon their young king all the aura of those who had come before. But Gil-galad had not come before. And while his wrath was indeed a powerful force, it was fresh and young. The age that lay in his eyes was such a short time.

_Children, _Glorfindel thought. _I am surrounded by children…and they are all older than I! _The twice-born Elf shook his head and grinned. Here he was, an Elf Lord of lost Gondolin, and in truth he was little more than a child. If it were not for the fact that this was the _second _time he had been little more than a child, he would not be here now. Barely old enough to have gone with the desperate army, Glorfindel looked out of place among the commanders. The golden-haired Elf appeared appallingly youthful…unless you caught his eyes at the right moment. Then his bright, unwavering gaze and cheery smile would become transparent, and shadows that had no right in so young a face would appear in his dark eyes—Shadow and Flame. He made some of the others uneasy, Glorfindel knew. It was because he was a conundrum. To them he was at once a hero reborn, come back at the last moment to stand once again against the Darkness that would try to claim them all, and yet also he was something that should not be here. He was a figure of the past, come to save their present, and they were not yet sure what to make of him. Sent back by Mandos—but why so soon? Others had died just as nobly as he, it was true; others there were who ought to be here just as much if not more than he. And yet…none of them had come. Only he. And they did not know why.

Glorfindel just smiled softly to himself. They did not know, but they would one day. They would see the Blessed Realms, the Realms that he had now left behind twice to return to Arda marred, and they would understand. Beauty, and hope, and light—they would understand all of it, and then they, too, would smile. But for now it was enough that he was here—again—ready to fight and, if need be, fall, for this world that he loved above all else. This world, these people, and what they stood for. _That _was why he was here. They were why he stayed, and came back, and would come again if need be.

Glorfindel grinned; a fierce, fiery smile that had once been the last sight of Shadow 'ere Gold had snuffed Dark Flame with its own, and ran his fingers idly over the hilt of his sword.

………….

Abruptly transported from past to present, Glorfindel snatched his fingers from his sword hilt and looked to his surroundings. The Balrog-slayer was accomplished enough a soldier to keep enough of his attention ever in the here-and-now that there was no danger of his horse wandering as his mind did in the Elvish waking dreams of memory. Even while he walked through the past, he paid mind enough to the present to stop his horse as soon as Elrond signaled. Of course, Kelwioor was also experienced enough a steed to have stopped herself, but she was also playful enough that Glorfindel would never have put it past her to cheekily ignore the _peredhel_'s command and carry the distracted Glorfindel a goodly distance before deigning to get his attention. She flicked an ear at him, insulted, but Glorfindel knew better than to fall for her pretence of innocence—and besides, he was distracted by what was happening up ahead to cause the halt. The Gondolin Elf peered through the snow that was somehow now swirling even thicker about them than it had when last he'd noticed. Elrond sat rigid and stern on his mount, apparently barely listening to the younger Elf who was leaning quite close in order to be heard above the tearing wind. Glorfindel had to blink snow out of his eyes before he could recognize Gildor Inglorion.

It seemed the young Elf Lord had plucked up courage enough to counsel a halt. At first Glorfindel frowned, puzzled, but then the twice-born Elf looked about him again. It was true; the snow had increased. If his own gallant Kelwioor had been a beast of lesser skill, no doubt he would have noticed earlier, for the other's steeds had begun to be troubled by the storm. Walking through drifts was far from uncommon for any mount of Glorfindel, for the Gondolin Elf was prone to adventuring in the oddest of weathers, but for steeds less accustomed to such crazed masters the snow and wind were growing more and more troublesome. Even Kelwioor had ceased to trot with her normal gay alacrity and was almost plodding more after the manner of human steeds. Glorfindel automatically whispered something encouraging and caressed her mane but his eyes never left the figures in front of him. One could have held a spear to Elrond's back and the wooden pole would have looked the looser of the two. Glorfindel could not see it through the snow, but he knew from experience that the Elf Lord's shoulders would be quivering with suppressed impatience and wrath.

What would Elrond decide, Glorfindel wondered. His sharp eyes were fastened unblinking to Rivendell's Lord Healer. Prudence—indeed, the barest safety—would dictate a halt while the worst of the storm played out around them. And Elrond was nothing if not aware of the necessities of safety. Recklessness and rashness had ruined many lives, and the _peredhel _had taken those lessons to heart early on. They had only been repeated through his life, whether it was the loss of gallant warriors, another scrape of the twins, or Oaths sworn in passion and regretted in pain. But right now Elrond's sons were in danger. Glorfindel unconsciously held his breath while he waited for the Elf Lord's verdict. Would they pause as they ought, or would Elrond too finally succumb to the failing of imprudent haste?

A long moment passed in the wind-roared snowfall. Then Elrond's dark head gave an almost imperceptible shake and the Elf Lord swung himself from his steed. Glorfindel saw Gildor's shoulders sag in relief and himself let out the breath he had not noticed holding. Elrond's senses were not impaired, at least not yet. Caution held sway over rashness still.

Glorfindel slipped lightly from Kelwioor's back and shook snow from his golden locks with a grin. Elrond was still the patient one; that left the Gondolin Elf free to be as careless as he liked, knowing that the Lord Healer would remain sensible.

At least for now, all was still right in the world. Glorfindel whistled cheerily to Kelwioor and the two jogged up lightly to join Elrond and Gildor as the others crowded around to strike what shelter they could from the blizzard swirling around them. Glorfindel looked up to bid a good night to the moon, but while he could sense the silvery orb above him, he could see nothing but the storm. The Gondolin Elf shook his head and idly ran his fingers along the hilt of his sword as he settled in for what was bound to be a long and boring night…

And a starless, moonless one at that.

* * *

**Reviewer Responses:**

**Deana – **Yeah, finally! Sheesh…does this count as soon? Nah, didn't think so…apologies!

**Nolitari – **Thank you very much, and I'm quite glad that I can entertain you with something you don't normally proscribe to. And thank you even more so for liking that last chapter…now listen and obey the words while they tell you to read more!

**Laiquendi – **Well…what if I promise _lots _more of Thranduil soon? You see my muse, which had abandoned me, might have fluttered back recently… Er, would you like some neosporin for those fingers? I mean, stumps?

**poke-the-penguin **– Chancellor Penguin, miracles are my specia…ah, hum. Sorry, wrong 'verse yet again. But what a lovely celebration! Here, have some cake!

**kel – **Nope, nothing hurt but his pride! Little mini Elf-sicles, heh.

**Aranna – **Powerful? Yes! Happy dance! So glad you liked, especially all the bits where nothing happened. I'm obsessed with character development (as you can no doubt tell from this latest part) and I sometimes worry that I'll lose my audience if I don't maintain the right mixture of character-to-plot, and I was worried about this one—but you liked it! YAY! You've made little Rhysie very happy, thank you.

**East Coastie1500 – **eeek, bad lightning! Bad, bad lightning! Considering it's been so bloody long, I hope everything's been sorted now, yes? Crossing my fingers for you!

_Well, consensus seems to be that last chapter was good in spite of my doubts. Thank you, everyone, for backing me up, I really appreciate it. Sorry it took so long to get you another chapter, but well, you see…the story sort of abandoned me. That's why you get a Glorfindel character piece for a chapter. However, good news is, the muse is back! Returned during Art History class today and I practically sprinted back to the dorms, finished off this chapter quick, and started laying out the next. So huzzah and hurrah, the story has returned to me, and hopefully I'll be able to make it actually _go _somewhere soon!_

_And again many, many, MANY thanks. Seriously. You guys keep reading even though I suck at updates, and then you all pump up my ego like this…I really, really appreciate it. Thank you._


	28. Problems Without Solutions

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Chapter Twenty-Eight: Problems Without Solutions

The trees were dark but not silent, moaning in faint whispers of pain and ache. They set Tiraran's teeth on edge and prickled his ears. He resisted the urge to rub the tingling points and settled for tightening his grip on his sword. Next to him, he saw young Ladinion give in to the temptation then flush when he felt his commander's eyes on him. Tiraran forced his lips to twitch into a smile, reassuring the warrior, but it was an expression he had long since ceased to feel.

On silent feet the Elves crept forward through the snow-coated branches of the thick Greenwood trees. Their light feet made little imprint in the frozen powder and the trees gave up no noise of their passage. They were few in number, a small scouting party to see what had disturbed the trees so.

With an intake of breath as sharp as his sword, Tiraran saw why the forest ached.

"_Yrch,_" he whispered, his voice a ripple in the wind so quite it seemed imagined. His warriors, however, had no trouble hearing the foul word, and stiffened as one.

"This close?" Ladinion gasped.

"Hush!" Merilgais hissed.

"Ladinion, Eregmegil, archery," Tiraran whispered calmly. The two Elves silently placed arrows to the string while the remaining members of his scouting party readied their swords. "Linteil, fetch us back-up." The slight Elf nodded sharply and darted back the way they had come. If the Valar's grace shone upon them, they would be able to keep the _yrch _under surveillance without having to risk a battle until Linteil returned with the numbers they would need to fight this many properly.

Tiraran swallowed against a sick feeling in his throat. _Yrch, _this deep in their forest, and in large numbers no less… No, the Grace of the Valar had left fair Greenwood 'ere _lhasbelin_ had started. Now there were only dark shadows creeping through the silent ghosts of trees and pooled in murky puddles on the ground.

…………..

Elrond's eyes were dark and hooded and he went about the task of settling his horse mechanically. Confused, the mount attempted to get his rider's attention, lipping a trailing sleeve and butting an unresponsive chest, but Elrond only absently patted the soft mane out of habit. His mind was wandering the whiteness that surrounded them, looking futilely for four young Elves that had disappeared within it.

Two of them were his sons.

Elrond had lost much family in his time on Middle-earth. First his father had sailed away, searching for a land on which no mortal Man could walk. Then his mother had fallen, brilliant jewel clutched to her chest as she flew away from those who would shed blood to keep promises. Then Maedhros and Maglor, two who were sick from all the death they'd seen and caused in their rashness to swear, falling at last to the darkness of the terrible Oath they'd made long ago. Then had gone Elros, his brother, lost to the time and age of the mortal life he had chosen, forever sundered from him. After that had come noble Gil-galad, and he too had gone, leaving Elrond Vilya and the duty to keep their people safe from the Shadow they had defeated but not vanquished. Yes, all those that had once been family to the _peredhel _were gone, never again to trod the lands of Arda. He had lost much.

He would _not_ lose his sons.

…………..

Elrond stood frozen and forlorn on the field of battle—of carnage, now—swaying slightly as if about to fall. His sword dangled limply from his hand and his breath came in shuddering gasps. He looked wounded unto death, yet only minor cuts and lacerations marred his frame. Seven years of siege, seven years of death and loss, now over at last… Mordor, broken; Sauron, defeated. And yet, it felt not like a victory. Too many had fallen, never to rise again—and perhaps not all had fallen into death. Perhaps some had fallen into something worse, something darker and everlasting. Something that, perhaps, would doom them all… The sounds of a victory chant from raw, aching throats sounded discordant and distant, as if it were being sung by some other army, not the one he had fought with for the past few endless years.

A gentle but strong hand clasped Elrond's shoulder, but the _peredhel _seemed not to notice it and, with a sigh, Círdan at last turned away. He did not follow the footsteps that Isildur had left in the dust but went rather towards the fields on which the dead and dying lay, there to help what he could. Elrond knew he ought to join the shipwright and yet he did not think that he could bear the pain right now. The bitterness of Isildur's words was too harsh and stinging in his heart.

"This I will have as weregild for my father's death, and my  
brother's. Was it not I that dealt the Enemy his death-blow?"

_Indeed it was your hand, my far-distant kinsman, yet I fear that while that Ring lies in your hand the Shadow of Sauron will never be truly dead. _A chill wind of smoke and choking ash made Elrond shiver and a distant vision started to form before his grey eyes. An old man there was beneath a ragged hat and yet he was not in truth a Man, and beside him there stood a child and around that child's neck there hung the weight of the world, and behind them there crept a shadow, clawing, reaching for the fragile chain on which so much depended—

The vision vanished, lost in the tumult of the battle's aftermath. Elrond blinked, trying to recapture what he had seen, but it would not come. There had been a child, he knew—he thought there was, at least. And someone else—someone tall and grey and stooped with something other than age, but even as he thought that he was unsure. Perhaps it had not been so—perhaps he had imagined—

The sound of a lamentation rose in the air, a high note splitting the rough chant of victory like a sob of pain, shaking Elrond from his thoughts. He turned to see an Elf, too blood-soaked and ash-coated to tell who it was or even if it was one of Gil-galad's—of his own—forces, or one of the Greenwood Elves. The words made no sense to Elrond's ears but the pain and loss was all too familiar. The _peredhel _felt his eyes prick but they were too dry from the ash and a surfeit of weeping for tears to form or fall. It would be many days, Elrond knew, 'ere he would be able to weep for all that had been lost.

_Gil-galad… _his heart screamed, but his face would not move, his mouth would not let the words fall from his lips. The scream tore at his throat but no sound did he make. Elrond clenched his hand and felt the unfamiliar bite of cold metal around his finger and knew once more that it had been no dream. Gil-galad was dead, and he was the only one left to lead the Elves past this victory—and yet if he did not feel it a victory, how could he hope to lead his people? He had to help them pass their own pain, yet how could he when he could not even express his own? He knew what was required of those doomed to lead, and yet he knew not how to do what was needed. He must not let anyone see the ache in his heart, he must turn a bright face to the day, sing praises of victory at last with a voice that could not even bear to speak its sorrow. How could he face his people's pain when he could not even face his own?

How could he help them carry on when he did not even know how to do so himself?

_Is this what it was like for Gil-galad? _he wondered. Smiling though your heart would break, speaking words of joy and bravery when all you felt was pain and sorrow. Cheering for a victory when you saw only defeat. How had the High King done it, how had he borne the burden without breaking under it?

And could Elrond do the same? He was not Gil-galad, he knew; he was no legend walking the earth, no king of heritage or lore. He was an advisor, a herald, a councilor, and perhaps a soldier. He was not a king and he knew that he would never be one, could never be one. He would somehow find it within him to rally his people and smile, to lead them forth from this field of carnage with as good cheer as he could pretend, but he was not Ereinion Gil-galad and would never pretend to be. He would return to Imladris and dwell there, and perhaps find a way to heal his sorrow and that of his people. Perhaps he would learn how to defeat this darkness forever; perhaps he would one day understand all they had lost and why the price had had to be paid. Perhaps someday he would view it as an acceptable toll.

But not today. Today he would summon what control and dignity he could and join in the tending of their injured and fallen comrades. Today he would force a brittle smile and praise their victory in soft words of sorrowful pride. Today he would try and find Isildur and make right the harsh words between them. Today he would—

A flash of gold distracted the _peredhel. _He started, surprised at the color. Here, all was dark and grey. Even the sun was ash-coated and no pure beams broke through the hellish cloud cover of these polluted lands. Swords shone silver and sickly beneath the pale light and blood gleamed with a harsh luster of red or black. Blue turned to black and brown to the rust of dried blood. Red faded and green grew ill. White fell to the ash so quickly it might have been woven of grey. Color did not shine in this dark land but rather faded, victim to the all-encompassing leeching Shadow that sucked at their souls. The only gold that glittered here in these shadow lands was the thin band that Isildur had clenched in his hand, and that gold had looked shadowed and dark to Elrond's eyes. Thus he was startled at the sight of a color pure as sunlight streaming across this darkened field of death.

He turned to see it clearly, and was no less disquieted by what he saw. The gold streamed from the head of a young Elf. His leather armor was cracked and savaged and coated with blood both red and black. The sword in his hand was so dark with orc-blood it looked as if it had been forged of obsidian. His eyes were as pale as cold spring morning but they shone with the harsh light which all things that could still shine under the cloud of Mordor took on here. It was a light sharp enough to cut, and Elrond had no doubt that the young Elf could have used his gaze with as much effect as his sword upon the foe. He looked no different from any of the warriors on this field, tired and battered and bloody.

Yet from his head flowed brilliant gold undaunted by the ash and shadow of Sauron's spells.

"_Aralor,_" they called him, the Elves of Greenwood. Royal-gold, their symbol on the field and off: Thranduil, new king of Greenwood the Great. Elrond had never realized how fitting a title it was 'til now. Even ragged as he was, Thranduil looked a king. Save for that golden hair, there was nothing to distinguish him from his fellows; his armor was just as light and just as worn, his form just as ashy and bloodied. He bore wounds of both body and spirit, as all of them did. And yet there was something about the young Elf that seemed to require respect and reverence. Elrond did not know what it was, but it was something that Gil-galad had exuded as a fire does heat or a star does light. Thranduil had that same unnamable something about him. _He _was truly a king. He had led his forces onward after Oropher had fallen and they had somehow gone on with increased vigor and valor. The confidence of the young Elf was contagious. His people would trust in him, in his strength and ability, with just a look. Elrond himself almost felt inclined to bow to the young king and checked himself only barely.

As if he sensed that he was being watched, Thranduil paused in his path across the field littered with the dead and turned to Elrond. Blue eyes smoldered under the shadowed sky as they met grey, and a frown crossed the young king's features. Turning so abruptly that his guard had to scramble to catch up to the king's fast pace, Thranduil started towards Elrond.

The _peredhel _nodded respectfully, carefully keeping his face blank. He would not let slip the sorrow he was feeling, would not show how deeply he was hurt. He would show only the victory; he would not show the defeat. "Thank the Valar for our victory this day," Elrond spoke calmly, pleased to note that his voice did not crack or quiver.

Thranduil's eyes flashed. "Victory?" he repeated, apparently surprised that Elrond had the strength of will to see it as such. He had ever underestimated the _peredhel, _and Elrond was glad to see that perhaps now Thranduil would have more confidence in him. After all, if they were to work together—

"I was unaware that a battle in which one of your own erstwhile allies makes off with the mightiest weapon of the Enemy ought to be considered a victory," the blonde Elf sneered.

Elrond's eyebrows raised in surprise. "I beg your pardon?" he asked politely while inside his thoughts raced. No one knew that Isildur had even found the Master Ring, let alone that he had claimed it as his own. That was a rumor that they did not need starting, and he could not imagine how Thranduil had learned anything about the argument or its outcome.

Thranduil's gaze narrowed. "Tiraran tells me that you spoke but a few moments ago with Isildur about the finding of Something when he slew Sauron, and that you and Círdan counseled him to throw it into Orodruin so that it might be unmade. For something to require such a destruction, what else could it be but one of Sauron's greatest tools of evil?" Elrond shifted slightly, but said nothing as his heart plummeted into his blackened boots. "Further, he tells me that only by doing this would the power of Sauron be destroyed in truth. He says last of all that Isildur refused, taking this Thing to him in payment for the death of his kin."

_Of course, _Elrond thought with a hint of despair. The Elves of Greenwood walk even more silently than do their brethren, and in this shadowy, ash-filled land it is all too easy to lurk nearby undetected by those distracted by other matters. _Thus do our own kin spy on us, _he thought bitterly.

"It is true that Isildur claimed a wergild for the death of his father and brother," Elrond said slowly, "but it is also true that it was by his hand that Sauron fell. He is young and brash, and spoke out of pain rather than thought. It is true that you, like all of us, lost much in this harsh battle, but your envy should not begrudge him such a trinket."

Thranduil's eyes flashed like a stab of lightning and Tiraran drew a breath through his teeth like a hiss. Elrond flinched at his own words, seeing too late what he had spoke while his mind worked on other thoughts.

Bloodstained gold hair blew like the wrath of the sun around the storm cloud in Thranduil's eyes as he leaned close to Elrond. "Perhaps you Noldor think only in terms of trinkets and payments; surely your history shows you care more for jewels and baubles than your own kin. Or perhaps it is the human part of your heritage, _peredhel, _that speaks now," Greenwood's king spat derisively, "but the Elves of Greenwood count lives of more value than gold or gems. My thought is for the destruction of Sauron and little else, for what sort of victory can you hope to call his debacle if we do not even accomplish the stamping out of his foul Shadow?"

Elrond's eyes flashed dark and angry in response to the insult. "Sauron has indeed been vanquished, as you ought to have well seen if your own pride and rashness did not completely cloud your mind," he snapped. "What more would you require of a battle than the destruction of your Enemy to call it a victory?"

"Perhaps it is only that I value the lives of my people more than you do, _peredhel,_" Thranduil retorted, "but I need more than a temporary reprieve to make their deaths something more than meaningless driftwood thrown to slow down the path of the Dark Lord."

"You do not speak of your people," Elrond shot back, "you speak of your father alone, as if you were the only one here who has lost something dear. We have all suffered grievous loss for this victory, yet you are the only one here who has let their grief madden them into a furor of revenge that clouds all judgement of protecting your people when you can rather expend their lives heedlessly to lash out with them at those who hurt you."

Thranduil stiffened but at his side Tiraran whipped his sword from its battered scabbard and pointed the blade at Elrond, his face a mirror of his king's wrath. "Hold!" Thranduil snapped as Elrond took an involuntary step backward and raised his own sword. They froze, instinctively obeying the commanding tone.

Thranduil's eyes sparked as brightly and as violently as his voice. "Let the Noldor slay each other; Greenwood shall never be named kinslayers so long as it is within my power to prevent such a perversion."

Elrond's hand tightened convulsively on his sword but he made no move. He locked eyes with Thranduil. "You speak of things of which you have no right to and of which you possess no knowledge," he spoke through clenched teeth. "Not that anyone would expect much more of the ignorant Moriquendi."

"Perhaps not," Thranduil replied coldly, "but none of my kin have ever had the blood of Elves on their blade." They stared at each other for a tense moment before he spoke again. "Come, Tiraran; let us leave this place of tragedy to those familiar with such deceit and disappointment of betrayal."

Tiraran shot one last glare at Elrond before sheathing his sword and turning on his heel to follow his king.

Elrond slowly lowered his sword and swallowed against a foul taste in his mouth. He ought to call out, to stop Thranduil and apologize for his words. He ought to shake off the insult he had been dealt and attempt to repair things with his ally. Yet he could not make himself speak. He promised himself that he would set things right this evening; he just needed time to think, to settle his jangling emotions. It would do no good to try and speak to Greenwood's king now; both of them were so wired by the discordant strings of their feelings that he was more likely to make things worse than better. He drew a shuddering breath, trying to banish the pain of the words—pain that stung far worse than his wounds right now—and calm himself.

Elrond wanted no more of this, any of this. No more of war, no more of quarreling allies and sorrowing kinsmen. He was sickened by the blood on his sword, by the pain in his heart. He blinked stinging eyes and swallowed against an aching throat. If he could heal the pain this battle had left in all of them with his own blood, he would not stop 'til every drop was spent. He made a convulsive movement to throw his sword from his hand but hesitated. No; he might wish to never again ride to war, might wish to never again wield Hadhafang, might wish to only forget all of this senseless tragedy and heartache and sickening death and pain…but something cold and bitter in his heart told him that the battle was not over.

He might never want to fight again, but Thranduil was right about one thing: this victory was not as comprehensive as it might have been. True, Sauron was vanquished, but his evil remained, already perhaps working at the heart of an ally. Isildur was strong, Elrond knew; his bloodline was the noblest of Men. He would resist the Shadow, but what evil would it wreak around him?

The Elf shuddered as if a cold wind penetrated his bones, but all around him everything was still and dead and shadowed. Grey eyes closed against the harsh gloom as tears slowly leaked glistening trails down ash-coated cheeks.

…………..

No, the Valar's Grace no longer penetrated the leafy bower of Greenwood the Great. Tiraran was certain of it. There was only darkness here—thick and black and foul. He swung his silvery blade in a sharp twist behind his back and was rewarded with a gurgle of pain. The _gon _twisted out of the way of a spray of hot black blood, dipped into a crouch to avoid a heavy club that had moments ago intended to impact with his skull, and neatly hooked a foot around the heavy-booted ankle of another of the barbaric _yrch._ He slipped his foot free in the same motion that he slit the _orch_'s throat with then moved fluidly into a jump to keep his ankles from being severed by a rough sword. Tiraran's toes brushed the ground for only a second before he lunged forward, adroitly avoiding the sword on its return swing while lacing his own blade through another enemy's entrails. He whipped the foul string of fetid organs at the _orch _behind him and, while it was distracted with its allies guts, calmly dispatched the previously wounded creature. He turned to deal with the one he'd just decorated, but there was no need.

Merilgais nodded to him briefly, her brown hair glimmering like liquid oak in the faint echo of moonlight that filtered through the trees of Greenwood, many still bearing leaves despite the wintry snow that decorated them. She slid her glaive free of the ribcage of her fallen foe and executed a swift roll that carried her out of the way of retaliation. A twist of the glaive through her legs as she rolled, and the _orch _that had attempted to strike her fell with a harsh but short cry. Merilgais grimaced at Tiraran as a spout of blackish blood brushed the toe of her boot, then she turned and vanished behind a pair of _yrch _who seemed to have realized her gender. Unfortunately for the sluggish creatures the Elf-maid was not the temptingly easier target they thought her and it was only a moment 'ere they had joined their compatriots on the snowy floor of the forest.

Tiraran, fighting his own battles by reflex, next turned his attention to the tree where Ladinion was showing off his marksmanship skills. The lad was young, but exceptionally talented. He was one of the best archers Tiraran had ever seen. If only he could learn to pay attention to more than one target at a time…

Fortunately for the archer, Eregmegil was more than capable of pruning the _yrch _that had attempted to scale the tree and pick off the shooter. A few blows from the dark-haired Elf's wide blade and the only sign that anyone had attempted to sneak up on Ladinion were a few black, sticky stains on the tree-trunk and the carcasses that lay at its feet. Hopefully someone would be able to warn the lad before he descended from the tree; putting your hand in _yrch_-blood was a far from pleasant experience, especially after it had had time to congeal a little.

Tiraran ducked a blow and rammed his own sword into his opponent's throat as the _orch _over-extended its reach in an effort to catch the Elf off-guard. It wouldn't work; Tiraran had been fighting _yrch _for centuries and this rabble was not nearly enough to throw off someone who had stood against the hordes of Sauron in the bowls of Morder itself.

Still…there was something strange, the _gon _had to admit. Truth be told, a lot was strange lately. The _yrch _should not be this bold. Traveling through Greenwood's outskirts in large numbers was bad enough, but to not only continue to do so after the forays _Aran _Thranduil, and later he himself, had led to decimate their forces these past few months, but to expand those numbers… A chill prickling along the back of Tiraran's neck that had nothing to do with the sword of the _orch _that had attempted to sever that neck settled itself somewhere in the pit of the Elf's stomach. The _yrch _should not be here, there should not be so many, and they should certainly not be walking about this freely so close to the principal settlement—to the palace, even—of Greenwood's Elves.

Tiraran's gray eyes flashed colder than the steel that danced in his hand. He _knew _something was wrong, more even than what he could see or sense. And now, when their _aralor _was fading, was the worst time possible for something to go so deeply wrong. Tiraran was more than an able commander and warrior, but he was a military leader, one to rally troops and scrape victories from defeats. He knew he did not possess the talents required to be a diplomat, to lead by words rather than weapons, and he had no desire to do so. He was a warrior; not a ruler.

He needed his king…but he could not help him.

The fierce grimace on Tiraran's face deepened and his eyes spat sparks. His blade moved like liquid moonlight: fast, fluid, and devastating. _Yrch _fell about him like dark clouds dispelled by moonrise, but he could do nothing to purge the shadow in his heart; the shadow choking his home; the shadow that was slowly killing his king. With a snarl, the Elf sliced an _orch's _head cleanly from its shoulders, then spun and caught another's throat with the edge of his blade. Dodging the spray of blood, the Elvish _gon _glanced up at the sky…but he could find neither moon nor stars. There was nothing to light his way, neither of silver nor of gold. He knew something was wrong, but he knew not how to fix it.

He knew not how to save his king.

…………..

Elrond swallowed hard and sighed. There was too much loss, too much pain. Too much blood had been spilled and too many words had been spoken. A Healer beyond compare he was, and yet there were some things that even he knew not how to mend. His hand brushed the hilt of Hadhafang and he grimaced. Here he was, once more, riding to battle. Now his children were endangered by the Shadow he had once hoped to defeat years ago. He had allowed himself to believe, to hope, and see where that had gotten him?

Nowhere.

Once again the Shadow threatened all he held dear; once again darkness crept out of the echoes of the past to tear at them all. Would they never be rid of it? For each evil that they defeated, would another simply rise to take its place?

_If it does not, _Elrond thought bitterly, _we seem to make the evil ourselves._

His heart burned with shame as he remembered the words exchanged that day when the Second Age had ended. He had been young and hurt and, yes, he could admit, even jealous. But none of that excused what he had said; only explained why he had said it. Lost and confused and reeling from too many emotional blows in too short a space of time, Elrond had spoken without thinking and then had only snapped back in injured reflex. The wounds had scabbed over but had not been allowed to heal. Greenwood and Imladris had not in truth spoken since that last bitter day. Thranduil and his forces had buried their dead with haste and departed 'ere the sun had finished its shrouded setting. Greenwood had no desire to stay on the field where they felt no victory worth their sacrifice. Let the rest of the Last Alliance mop up the forces of darkness still reeling from their so-called defeat; in Greenwood's mind the Alliance had been broken and they wanted nothing more to do with it. The Wood-Elves had retreated within their trees and the rest of them had let them, feeling that they had more than enough to deal with without adding the problem of placating their affronted Silvan brethren.

Elrond now thought that a mistake, but at the time it had made only too much sense. Greenwood seemed quite capable of taking care of itself, and the remnants of the Alliance had more than enough forces to rout the defeated legions of darkness without them. Messengers could be sent later, reconciliation put off while tempers cooled.

But Greenwood's temper had cooled to ice, and the messengers had been received with chilly propriety and then sent back with no more welcome than politeness strictly required. Annoyed at their kinsmen's chilly reception, the rest of the Elves had gradually stopped trying, expecting that Greenwood would come around on their own. But they had not, and as time passed nothing changed. Greenwood was firmly behind their own borders, and cared even less for the outside world than the outside world cared for them.

Elrond had thought, upon learning Legolas's identity, that perhaps this might be the lever needed to rekindle relations between the Elven kingdoms. Thranduil would be overjoyed to see his son again, and perhaps that would be the bridge that Elrond needed to close the frozen gap that had grown between them.

But now that frozen gap seemed colder and wider than ever. The little prince was lost with his twin sons somewhere in this chill winter darkness, and while Elrond would not allow himself to despair he could not find it within himself to hope, either. He clenched his teeth and forced himself not to think on what could happen, forced himself to think only of the ride, the journey, the search—did not allow himself to dwell upon the possible outcome. He would not, could not, allow himself to think of that, for to do so would be to give in to the despair that was all too close to consuming him.

A glimpse of bright gold distracted Imladris's Lord, and he started, turning in surprise. Glorfindel, hood down and hair shining in the dark and white-shrouded night, caught Elrond's glance. Ever irrepressibly cheerful, the Balrog-slayer smiled encouragingly at the Healer, but the smile faltered at the dark sorrow in the _peredhel's _eyes and Glorfindel turned away into the darkness of the icy night.

_Lhasbelin _– autumn, leaf-fade  
As said by Isildur in the final chapter of the _Silmarillion _on page 295.

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**East Coastie1500 – **I hope you do another dance, perhaps of surprise this time! Look, back on track and even a Thranduil-sighting! Yay!

_Yeah, again, sorry about the hiatus and the rather pointless deviation of last chapter. See, I knew I had to write _some_thing but I couldn't for the life of me make the story work, so I thought—hey, I can _always _write character studies, it's only plot that I have trouble with; who'd be fun to do a chapter on? So that's what you got last time. However! My muse is now back at least! Hopefully everyone enjoyed this chapter more, and even more hopefully I'll be able to keep updating—although probably not as fast as I just did!_


	29. Darkness Before the Dawn

_Sorry it took so long, but lots of people say winter is the time for miracles—and here we have them all around, both _because _of the chapter and…well, read on and see._

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**Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Darkness Before the Dawn**

Beneath a moon obscured by cloud and snow, four young Elves and four noble horses huddled together within the shallow cavity of a drift that had already formed around them. All but two of their number were deep within chill slumber. Setting double watches meant less sleep for all of them, but in weather such as this it was imperative to avoid the dangers of drifting off. Should the storm shift direction or the snow suddenly collapse, they could very well awake to find themselves buried. While they knew they would need their strength, better to wake tired than not at all.

At the moment, the two on watch were the brothers Elladan and Elrohir. It was third watch; the first had been taken by Fuiniel and Elladan; the second by Elrohir and Legolas; the fourth would be the turn of the Greenwood children, although it was likely that the twins would take silent turns pretending to sleep rather than truly doing so. It was not that they did not trust the younger elflings; it was just that they still thought them elflings like any other innocent child, when their hardships had already formed steel in their young veins. The children would not give in to slumber when they were on watch, but the twins did not yet know this of their determination.

In order to keep themselves awake, the twins had spent much of their watch discussing all they knew of their destination. More of Erestor's lessons had sunk in than the advisor would ever have imagined, and they were not so poorly off as they might have been. Still, it was a land not often discussed or studied, and it had been long indeed since anyone had traveled either from or to. Celebrían's sons knew more than most Rivendell Elves, having spent time in their grandparents' lands which were much closer both in distance and in relations than the protected valley they called their home, but even Lórien had grown apart from their cousins in recent years. Thus, the most current information the twins could debate when it came to the ruler they were returning the two elflings to came from accounts told by Elrond, Glorfindel, and others of the Last Alliance nearly a millenium ago.

"And that was the last time adar saw him, wasn't it?"

"Ay; I do not think he has left since."

"Stubborn fellow, is he not?"

"Quick to take offense, too."

"That is not why he left," a small voice broke in sleepily. The twins jumped in surprise and looked down to find bright blue eyes watching them from within the cloak Legolas had wrapped himself in like a cocoon.

"I…what?" Elrohir asked disjointedly.

"He did not leave because Lord Elrond was mean," Legolas said around a yawn. "Ada left because we had been betrayed."

"…Betrayed?" Elladan asked slowly. "How was he betrayed?"

"Because Gil-galad said that they were going to defeat Sauron, but then the other Elves let the Men take away part of his power instead of destroying it," Legolas explained drowsily. "That is why the Shadow still exists and the _yrch _and everything foul and evil."

"Well, that is perhaps true in some ways," Elladan began slowly, "but not all that is ill or dark in the world could possibly be a result of the…Thing, even if it had not been lost years ago…"

"Ada says we were betrayed because the Men poisoned the minds of the other Elves since they shared a distant kinship, and used Greenwood's forces simply as an expendable tool. That is why daeradar and so many of our warriors died." Legolas yawned wide enough to make his jaw pop and pulled the cloak farther over his head. "All that and we still did not win…" He mumbled against the cloak as he drifted back into sleep. "Ada says that sometimes even Elves cannot be trusted…"

Elladan and Elrohir looked at each other in shock. They knew that Thranduil and their father had parted with bitter words on the battlefield, but for Greenwood to _still_ be bitter… Yes, the Last Alliance had been full of tragedy, but it had been a victorious tragedy! Yet here was this elfling treating it as if it had been a defeat and not just that, but a betrayal! Was that why Greenwood had closed itself off from its neighbors—not because they were absorbed in their own doings, but because they felt the other Elves had _betrayed _them? The Last Alliance had left many wounds, that was true; but wounds of resentment that had yet to heal? Wounds that no one outside the forest even knew existed!

The night suddenly felt colder and the twins had the sinking feeling that the reception waiting for them at the other end of this journey might not be as warm as they had anticipated.

……………

The fading moonlight shone unimpeded on the chill trees of Greenwood yet beneath their still-leafy branches the darkness was almost complete. However, darkness was only the slightest of impairments, especially when kissed by even the faintest hint of moonlight, to those moving beneath the shadows of the trees and it was entirely welcome to those they hunted. Tiraran moved soundlessly through the frozen brush. He could still smell the foul odor of the _yrch, _still taste the oily coating their presence left on his tongue, still hear the trees whispering; he knew they were still near and he intended to find and dispatch as many of the hated creatures as he could. He heard no sound of his warriors although he knew they were nearby, and made a note to congratulate them on their silence.

There was another smell, too; faint and almost overpowered by the scent of foul _yrch. _It was familiar, but Tiraran could not quite place it. Sweet and putrid at the same time, it stirred a revulsion within the Elf as if his body remembered what it foretold but his mind had managed to forget. Unease wrapped itself around him and ran bone-cold fingers up his spine. The nearby presence of the foul horde pushed the warrior onward, but something tugged at the edges of his awareness, warning him to turn back before he remembered. The whispers of the trees stilled with a shuddering and the forest fell silent. He stepped forward into the thick, smothering quiet hesitantly, hand white-knuckled around his sword.

Then he froze and broke the silence himself with a short, inarticulate cry that tore itself from his throat. A sword that no enemy had ever dashed from his grip fell from suddenly nerveless fingers and the unyielding Elvish _gon _dropped to his knees in the snow. His grey eyes filled with an anguish darker than the blackest night and he trembled in helpless shock and rage.

Tiraran stared unblinking through eyes too hurt to fill with tears at a sight his worst fears would never have prepared him for.

Hanging limply and blood-coated from the beloved trees of his homeland was a broken and mutilated corpse of one he had long called friend. Tiraran's mouth moved but no words could force their way past his tongue. He shook like the frailest leaf despite the stillness of the night and nearly collapsed upon his face in the snow. The only reason he did not was that he could not rip his eyes away from the desecrated remains hanging like some perverse roadsign in the branches of the trees above him.

His mouth was silent but his mind was screaming, one word over and over, a long and anguished wail: _Aglarmegil! Aglarmegil! Aglarmegil!_

……………

The dark, twisted corridors hewn roughly from the rocky tunnels amplified and carried the sounds of a harsh lash from a distant chamber to the outer cave where most of the _yrch _were gathered. They snarled at each other in their own tongue as they argued over their foul meal of dripping meat and cheap ale. Every now and then one of them would look up at a particularly loud crack of the whip, but on the whole they seemed barely aware that somewhere, someone was being punished. They were _yrch, _and such an occurrence was hardly rare. That it was one of their own number rather than an enemy captive meant little to the foul creatures; the lash was a fact of life for the _yrch. _

Shrugging that he'd had it coming to him anyway for daring to fail the Master, the _yrch _paid little mind to the echoing sounds of lash or the occasional cry it elicited from its target. As long as the whip was not across their own backs, what did it matter to them? Focusing on the much more important task of securing the choicest bits of dinner, the _yrch _soon forgot the sounds of punishment.

That proved harder to do the closer one came to the source of the echoing cracks, for within the confined space of the small chamber the lash was almost painfully loud. Every now and then the _orch _that was being targeted gave a yelp or curse as the whip bit into his thick flesh. A grunt or two came from the _orch _that was doing the whipping, but if he was bothered on some level to be injuring his brethren he gave no sign. Indeed, he seemed to be enjoying the activity and did not let up until a whisper broke through the resounding cracks.

There was another figure in the small chamber, although this one had made no noise until it spoke. It was heavily swaddled in ragged, filthy robes and bandages. Its identity—indeed, its species—was impossible to tell through the shrouding wrappings, but whatever it was there was something wrong with it. It was hunched deeply into its hooded robes as if in constant pain and when it moved it was off-center and jerking. Still, its steps were silent, with only the faintest breath of sound coming from its tattered robes as they dragged across the rough stone floor.

"Enough," it hissed, its voice a spitting lash that sent a jerk though both victim and tormentor that rocked them more than the rawhide whip ever could. Both _yrch _fell silent, not even daring to hiss in pain, and turned dark eyes that flashed with a brief flicker of fear towards the frail figure. The chill cave seemed to darken, its shadows drawing deeper and closer around the hooded creature as the harsh whisper of the Black Speech filled the small chamber. "Ufnakh, have you anything to say in your defense?"

The bloodied _orch _trembled slightly as he stared up at its Master. "Yes," he croaked from a throat raw and hoarse. "The cursed Rivendell-Elves found the elf-brats and dragged them into their magical valley. How were we supposed to get them back from that?" he demanded.

A flash of cold anger shot from beneath the concealing hood and Ufnakh's defiance wilted as the _orch _shrank back. He could have broken the twisted figure in half with one hand, but terror kept him pinned to the floor of the cave as it spoke bitter words or recrimination and blame. "I sent you to bring me two elf-children. You assured me you would not fail as Urglug did. You promised to have the brats back in my hands before the first snowfall." Ufnakh shrank back, trying to disappear as the figure leaned closer and dropped its voice. Somehow the quiet tone was more frightening than any roar of wrath. "There have been many snowfalls since you left this accursed forest, Ufnakh. And now you come crawling back with no elf-child in tow." The _orch _trembled, its dark eyes darting around the cavern as if searching for an escape. "What do you think I ought to do with you for your failure?" the twisted figure asked in a sibilant whisper.

Ufnakh was saved the trouble of finding voice with which to answer when they were interrupted by a commotion. Krumlak, one of the _yrch_ that Ufnakh had lead across the Misty Mountains and back in hopes and then despair of catching the escaped child, burst into the room. He was panting and stunk of having run a great distance at desperate speed, but his eyes shone with the lust of prey and battle.

"Master!" Krumlak exclaimed with as much breath as the exhausted _orch _could muster, "the Elves come!"

A flash of irritation came from the robed figure as it turned to regard the new speaker. "What Elves?" it asked harshly. "Do you speak of Greenwood?"

"No," Krumlak panted triumphantly, "Rivendell!" Everyone stared at him in silent shock, even the Master. "We saw a group of the cursed creatures ride out into the snowfall. Their path takes them to the mountains! They mean to try the pass!"

"Did you attack?" the figure asked quickly.

Krumlak faltered for a moment. "There are too many of them, and they're armed well," he stammered an excuse. "But we thought they might be trying to return the elf-brats to the _gold-head-slaughter-son_ and thought…"

"Thinking was never your strong suit, Krumlak," the figure sneered from within its concealing robes, "yet in this instance at least it has proved fortuitous. I do not want the Elves attacked, not yet. Let them leave their lands and try themselves on the Pass, let them tire themselves on the crossing. We will intercept them as they cross the border of Greenwood and slaughter them there." A bright gleam came from within the shadowing hoods, and the hissing voice that spoke from its depths seemed to talk more to itself than to the _yrch _around it that it had all but forgotten in its excitement. "We will reclaim the elf-brat that eluded us, and when Imladris's warriors do not return they will send word to Greenwood. False Thranduil will know nothing of it, and reply as such. Rivendell will insist and Greenwood will deny, and they will tell the cursed king that they were returning the son he thought lost.

"If we can intercept the messengers we may even be able to manipulate Greenwood and Imladris into war with each other. Let the Elves slaughter one other, and we shall reap the benefit of their treachery." The twisted figure stayed silent for a moment, savoring its dark thoughts. Then with a rustle of dry cloth like dead leaves scraping dry bone, it turned abruptly and stalked awkwardly down the rough corridors. "Come!" it snapped to the _yrch _who scrambled to follow. "We have much to do…"

………

Soft Elven boots made no sound on the gentle wood floors of Greenwood's palace halls, but Tiraran's steps might have rang as loudly as the horns of war and they would not have been loud enough to drown out the screaming in his mind. Words had long ago ceased to have meaning and had given in to a long, inarticulate wail that roared between his ears. The _gon's _sight was blurred but he did not need his eyes to find his way. Even had he not known every turn of these halls as well as he knew the sword that hung buckled at his waist he could have found his way blindfolded for it was not his eyes that led him but his heart and the anguish within it.

Knocking aside the delicate wooden doors with as much force as if they'd been made of stone, Tiraran stormed into the king's bedchamber. Tarlas leaped to his feet in shock.

"Tiraran, what—" he asked but the warrior passed him without seeing the look of surprise in the other Elf's eyes or feeling long fingers pluck at his bloodstained sleeve. He didn't stop until he'd reached the bed in which the fading shadow of their precious _aralor _lay unresponsive to the world.

Eyes snapping in rage, Tiraran grabbed Thranduil's painfully thin shoulders and shock the limp king violently. "Curse you!" he screamed at the blank blue eyes and the pale, unmoved features; at the limp pale hair of shineless gold that had once been their beacon of hope. "Curse you for your stubbornness! Your people are dying, your land invaded, and you can think only of your own grief!" A strong grasp closed on his shoulders but Tiraran shook the taller Elf off, hardly noticing that Tarlas had attempted to interfere. "You are our lord, by all the Valar! How dare you abandon us! We need you!"

Firm hands closed over the _gon's _wrists and wrenched him away from the limp form of the king. Tiraran, face whiter than snow save for two small spots of red in his cheeks, spun angrily to look at Tarlas.

"What are you doing?" the advisor demanded in horrified shock. "Have you lost hold of your senses?"

"_I _am not the one lying insensate while around me my kingdom disintegrates into a darkness from which there is no other to pull it back!" the warrior snapped back, almost hysterical under the smothering combination of rage, grief, and helplessness. "Ask not if I have lost my senses, but whether all of Greenwood will be pyre enough to form the grave-gifts our king seems determined to give his son!"

Tarlas rocked backwards, hands dropping from Tiraran's sides, as if he'd been struck a physical blow. "You do not mean that," he immediately responded in a low voice of pain.

But pain could not cow Tiraran; he was in too much agony to note any lesser prickings that his words might cause. "I mean it with all the strength in my form," he retorted. "Our people are in danger, Tarlas! They are dying!" His hands clenched into fists so tight that the nails of his fingers bit into his palm and drew small drops of red blood. "The _yrch_ have free reign, and they are aware of it! They _know _that Aran Thranduil is not going to fight them and I cannot Tarlas, I cannot! I am not the _aralor, _I cannot lead our people! I can lead troops, I can lead soldiers—but that is not enough to fight _them!_"

"He cannot lead them either!" Tarlas shouted back, pained. "Thranduil is fading, he is not—"

"The _yrch _slowly creep up on our border," Tiraran continued, speaking loudly over whatever words the other tried to interrupt him with. "Moving with impunity, nearly unchallenged! They mass in numbers, they are organized! We face more than the mindless rabble we have been exchanging sorties with these past thousand years! They—"

His voice cracked and he turned away, swallowing against a sick feeling in his stomach, in his heart. "They torment their victims and hang their mutilated corpses in our trees to mock us," he forced out with a trembling voice. Shining, tear-filled eyes met Tarlas's confused gaze. "Aglarmegil," the _gon _spoke in a strangled whisper. "The _yrch_…hung him in our very trees…" His voice failed, and he could speak no more.

Tarlas placed a hand upon the warrior's trembling shoulder. He was about to speak, words wise with both comfort and counsel no doubt, when another voice interrupted him.

That voice was weak and whispery, the faint gasp of dead leaves that cling tremulously through a fearsome storm to the slim branch from which they once drew nourishment. It was no more than a ragged gasp, but it froze both Elves in place as if it had been the loudest shout.

Thranduil, thin and pale and almost incorporeal, wavered slightly as he rose from the bed with a whisper.

"Bring me my sword."

* * *

_All right, hopefully everyone's seen all the stuff about review-response policy…so unfortunately, no more reviewer responses here. I personally think they're better within the story because sometimes questions are raised and…well, whatever. It's not my site, I just use it. So I'll comply, which means the end of response for all unsigned reviews (and you'll have to bear with me while I find the time to respond to the reviews of last chapter, I don't really even have time to post this tonight, but, well…) However, I wanted to extend special thanks to Lyn, and hopefully I'll remember not to do anything like that again. Oops… I'll leave it for now, because I don't even have time to write, let alone re-write…and we'll say that Elven biology is different from humans, so it isn't dangerous for them. And I'll slap myself on the wrist, because while I _did _do research on hypothermia, it obviously wasn't enough. My apologies, and my thanks, Lyn!_

_So…Thranduil, huh?  
In celebration, let me post something from an e-mail Katatonia sent me ages ago, that's absolutely perfect timing right now: Thranduil's Jingle Bells. Thanks, K._  
Jingle bells, all orcs smell,  
Mayhem all the way,  
Oh what fun it is to read,  
Rhy's stories - yay!


	30. The Storm Breaks

_And look, promises kept: it's up in January. No idea when I'll manage the next update, though. Sorry. At least there's this one for now! And I'm working on _Ostad _as we speak. Well, not literally, because we aren't really "speaking" and I can only type one thing at a time but...you know what I mean... _

_

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**Chapter Thirty: The Storm Breaks**

Tiraran and Tarlas gaped in shock at the apparition before them. Thranduil, thin and pale and nearly as ephemeral as a spirit, stood before them. The king's long hair hung flat and lusterless about a face unnaturally white and thin. His eyes looked overlarge above sharply pronounced cheekbones and their snapping blue was dull and nearly leeched of color. One could almost imagine being able to see through the frail figure to the room beyond him, but even as they watched he seemed to grasp at solidity. A faint spark smoldered somewhere behind those eyes in the distant past and if it was not enough to kindle the fire that had once dwelt there, if it was not enough to draw Thranduil back to the living, it was at least enough to give the ghost that stood before them some semblance of form. It was not enough to recall the Elven-King to his former glory, but perhaps it was enough merely to be a memory of those glories. When Thranduil spoke again, his voice was firmer if still no stronger than a breath of wind upon a glass.

"Bring me my sword," he repeated.

"My—my lord," stammered Tarlas, his own eyes widened with shock. "You—are you—how," he whispered to himself. Hope had outstretched its hand to the Elf, but he was too afraid to find out that it was only a shadow hope and not something real to be touched, and he could not bring himself to grasp it for fear of the despair its disappearance would bring.

Tiraran could not speak, but fell heavily to his knees. Tears poured down cheeks nearly as pale as the king's. The warrior's lips worked but he had no breath with which to speak.

"My king," Tarlas whispered, raising a hand that fell trembling before it could touch him. "You have…come back to us?" The last word shook, transforming it from statement to question.

Thranduil turned to look at his loyal advisor and the aching emptiness in those faint blue eyes nearly sent Tarlas into tears. The king took a step forward and stumbled. Tarlas leapt forward and caught him before he hit the ground. When he touched him, he realized that he was not dreaming. This Thranduil was real and solid, and though he was painfully thin and his milky skin so white it seemed like clouds rather than flesh, he was _real. _This hope might fail, but it was not illusion. Tarlas drew a shuddering breath as he steadied his liege.

Thranduil looked past Tarlas to where Tiraran knelt weakly on the floor. "I am shamed," the king whispered, his eyes sunken. "I have forgot my people, turned away when they needed me…"

"My lord, you ought to return to bed," Tarlas murmured soothingly. "You are not well, and while this turn is a miracle I could not hope to see you are still weak. You need to recover your strength."

"No," Thranduil replied, and while his voice was soft it was also firm. "I have forsaken my people long enough."

"My lord," Tarlas began but the king stepped away from the supporting grasp of his advisor with steps that, if they were not as firm and strong as they had once been, did not tremble. Thranduil crossed to where Tiraran watched with wide and tear-filled eyes in silence too sudden to break. He knelt gingerly next to his commander and deep, anguished grey met faint, anguished blue.

"I am sorry," Thranduil whispered. "I do not deserve your forgiveness, Tiraran. I ask only that you help me restore to our people what is ours and drive this shadow from our homes once more."

Tiraran shook his head, at last finding words although he did not know where. "Nay, my lord," he said in a voice that quivered but did not crack. "It is I who must beg forgiveness from you. My words were inexcusable—"

"And all that would reach me," Thranduil interrupted. He bowed his head before his warrior. "I do not ask your forgiveness."

"I would give it if there was forgiveness needed, my lord," Tiraran replied sincerely, lifting his hand to place it over his king's.

Thranduil's eyes were hauntingly empty. "I cannot accept it," he whispered. "Yet I do ask for your help."

"You know you have never to ask, your majesty," the _gon _responded immediately, his tears stopped like water that has met a sudden dam.

"Then have the troops prepared, my friend, and my armor fetched," the king commanded.

Tiraran's eyes shone once more with both hope and strength. "At once, my king," the Elf replied, rising to his feet and aiding his liege to do the same.

"My lord, I must protest," Tarlas cut in. "I am as overjoyed as Tiraran to see you return to us, my lord, yet I must be the voice of prudence. You are not fit for this. Please, take some small time to recover your strength."

Thranduil turned to face the dark-haired Elf and Tiraran paused at the doorway he had so recently stormed through in wrath. The king and his advisor stared at one another in silence for a long moment, Thranduil calm and resolute; Tarlas worried and dismayed.

"My friend," the king said at last, and his voice seemed almost strong again, "there is nothing now in rest that will restore me. Only in death and vengeance will I find that now. I have forgotten how to live, to love. All that is left is wrath." Tarlas stared at his lord imploringly, then at last lowered his head with a sigh.

"Tiraran," the king said softly, "bring me my sword."

…………

Lost in the gray paths of empty dreaming, Fuiniel distantly felt some sort of change in the word in which her lightly slumbering body lay. Instantly the clouds about her dissipated and in but a single eyeblink she flashed to wakefulness. Hand clenched tightly on the hilt of a long knife in her belt, the Elf-maid nimbly shifted her feet beneath her, ready to spring.

"I bid you good waking," one of the twins said, looking at her tense form with friendly amusement. It had to be Elrohir, for he was currently engaged in picking clumps of snow and ice from the soggy dark hair hanging in bedraggled lumps about his face.

Fuiniel frowned and looked around, trying to discern what had awoken her. Sharp eyes flashed first to Legolas but the elfling still slumbered peacefully. She glanced at the horses cheerily shaking snow from their manes as they blinked away sleep and that was when she realized what it was.

"The snow has ceased," she exclaimed in surprise.

Elrohir grinned broadly. "Ay," he replied in a voice merry with laughter, "the storm faltered an hour or so past and finally blew itself out completely a few minutes ago."

Fuiniel blinked, then scowled. "Why then do we still sit here?" she asked harshly. Had the twins thought better of their plan and decided to wait for their father's people to come upon and drag them all back to the warm comfort of Imladris? The child's mind started racing for a plan or argument with which to escape the twins and continue on alone 'ere that could happen, but before she had formulated more than the wisps of an idea, Elrohir answered.

"Elladan has gone to scout, to make certain our position. We thought to let you sleep 'til he returned, at which time we would have a brief breakfast before we went on our way." The Elf's wry grin said he knew very well what Fuiniel had been thinking but the girl refused to be ashamed for being distrustful and stared back at the young Elf Lord coolly.

Elrohir shrugged and returned his attention to his personal icicles that still dangled stubbornly from his ears. He hoped to have the snow and ice gone from the dark locks before his brother returned. He had been teased enough, he felt, and it was time for Elladan to show some maturity and cease to nettle him about his errant hair. He had made good headway so far, but some sense that was not physical told him that he was now out of time.

The Elf dropped his hair a moment before Elladan came into view, running lightly over the snow. He was grinning, and Elrohir, reading his twin's thoughts in his broad smile, grinned in turn.

"We are not so far off as I feared we might be," Elladan confessed in an excited whisper to avoid waking Legolas as he dropped down between his horse and brother, patting the former and playfully ruffling the ice-speckled hair of the latter. There was no need for quiet, however, for Legolas sat up blinking but alert as soon as the older Elf sat down.

"Then you know in which direction our path lies?" the young prince asked eagerly.

"Ay," Elladan replied, fending off his brother's surreptitious attempt to dribble snow down his back. "The day is dawning quite clear and out route is easy to divine."

"Then we had best be on our way," Fuiniel broke in sharply. While the sun was steadily casting light upon the cloudless sky she nonetheless felt a great unease as if _yrch _were near.

"Relax, warrior," Elrohir said with a laugh. "Let us fill our bellies 'ere we set out or we shall find it hungry riding!"

Fuiniel's dark eyes caught Elrohir's securely in their cold glare. "I shall relax when I find us safely in reach of Greenwood's palace unpursued and no sooner," she said flatly. The twins fell silent, their gay mood evaporating like dry ashes cast to the wind. Elladan looked down and began mutely dolling out their allotted breakfast while Elrohir saw to the horses' needs in silence. Legolas reached for Fuiniel's hand but she pulled away from him and wrapped her arms around her shoulders.

Something colder than snow ran down Fuiniel's spine and she liked dry lips that refused to moisten. She could feel that something was wrong although she could not feel what, and it worried her more than she would ever wish to admit.

Almost she reached for Legolas's hand, but she stopped herself. Fuiniel would not allow herself to rely on false comfort, for she knew in her heart that she was alone.

…………..

Glorfindel leaped to his feet, startling Kelwioor from slumber. The horse snorted at him in irritation but he spared the time for only a brief pat before dashing to where Elrond was slumbering. Before he had taken so much as a step, however, the Lord of Imladris had already risen and started to shake the snow from his cape. Glorfindel's light step faltered as he wondered if Elrond had slept at all this night, or spent it staring bitterly at the stars he could not see for the snow.

Shaking off the moment of dourness, Glorfindel's bright smile returned. The snow had shifted and was starting to abate. The worst of the storm was over. They would head out again soon and, while Glorfindel could be as patient as any Elf when cause demanded it, forced inactivity did not sit well with the Balrog-slayer and he was eager for them to be on their way. The storm had broken, they would be moving again, and the day would dawn clear and bright, he was certain. Glorfindel would allow nothing to darken his mood this day, not even that of Lord Elrond.

For if the Gondolin Elf gave in to despair, who would be left to drag the _peredhel _out of his?

……………

The storm's sudden loss of fury did not lessen that of Elrond _Peredhel. _His wrath simmered with a cold and burning heat beneath his armored breast and within his steely eyes. The most fearsome storm-cloud would have envied those eyes for their cloudy, tumultuous grey; indeed, it was more than likely that the snow-storm, realizing that it would never match Elrond's eyes in fury, had simply given up and gone away to trouble them no more.

Elrond swung himself atop his mount, dark cloak swirling like wrath itself. The Elf Lord's face was hooded, and not by the cloak that he pulled low over his brow. Wrapped within his heart was sorrow never faced, and anger newly kindled. The two emotions warred with a dark, desperate fear. No sign of this was on the visage of Imladris's Lord, save perhaps in the shifting shadows of his eyes. His face was calm and cold, albeit hard enough to break stone with but a glance. Chill fingers wrapped themselves around the smooth hilt of a sword and gripped it until knuckles turned white as the snow that was still slowly falling.

Eyes sharper than Elven steel surveyed the cold and wintry land as the storm around him slowly faded. It could not compete with the storm within him. As the weather grew calmer, Elrond felt his heart twist even more painfully. It was time to be off, 'ere his tangled emotions could break through the calmness that he had forced himself to wear. Like the armor about his form, his mask of calm would serve to protect him and yet it was breakable.

He would just have to hope, as he had always done with his armor, that it would hold out long enough for him to do what he had to.

It would, he was certain of it; it _had_ to.

Shaking his head to clear it of as many dark thoughts as he could, Elrond pointed forward and whispered a command to the horse beneath him. Behind, he could hear the faint sounds of his small force starting forward behind him. They moved with as much speed as they could manage on the treacherous, frosty ground, but a dark voice in Elrond's ear whispered that they did not move fast enough.

He refused to listen. He knew their speed was enough; it _had _to be…

………….

A low, haunting melody rose like the whisper of dead winds after a storm over the frozen valley of Imladris, then faded, falling as silent as the snow-chilled dawn. Celebrían's silver eyes seemed like lingering moonlight glowing on her hair as she watched the faint sun struggling upward against a cold winter sky. Her fingers gently combed through the velvet brown locks of her daughter, head pillowed on the silk skirts of Celebrían's lap. Celebrían's eyes were clear as she stared with anxious heart at the distant dawning, but Arwen's were glazed with sleep like a cloud passing over the moon.


	31. Loyalty

**Chapter Thirty-One: Loyalty**

Golradir shivered and drew his cloak tighter about him. The snow might have stopped, but it was nothing compared to the frigidly burning wrath radiating from the form of Lord Elrond _Peredhel_. Almost he could regret coming if his lord would prove more fearsome than anything he expected to face this journey, but Golradir knew that even if he had not felt compelled by guilt-inspired duty, he would have gone. Had he not been fond of the twins, he would have gone nonetheless. Had he not felt such great pity and compassion for the little lost elflings that he was nearly moved to tears, he would have gone. Had he not felt for Lord Elrond the deepest respect and loyalty he thought any being could hold for another, he would have gone.

Had he not blamed himself entirely for being fool enough to watch them ride away into this bitter storm, Golradir would have still have gone.

But guilt certainly did wonders to push someone onward without complaint.

None of the warriors in their small company would have ever, ever thought of turning back, would have ever dreamed of questioning Lord Elrond or arguing with his orders. None of them would ever flinch or balk at anything they were asked to do in this journey. But that did not stop them from grumbling about the snow or commiserating about the ride or a hundred other jovial hardships that made up the conversation among warriors on the trail. But even when engaged in converse, Golradir could do no more than mutely shake his head. Guilt haunted the eyes of the Elf and his heart was heavy. If anything happened to any of those children he had so witlessly failed to stop…

Golradir shivered again, drawing his cloak close. Lord Elrond had spoken no word of blame, made no noise of reproachment; when he had confessed his sin to Glorfindel, not wanting to disturb Imladris's Lord, the Gondolin Elf had shrugged, clapped him on the back, and said, "ah, those twins!" in a mixture of exasperation and delight. This had done nothing to assuage Golradir's feelings of guilt as the Balrog-slayer wandered off whistling cheerily; on the contrary, it had made him feel a good sight worse. If only someone would lecture him, scold him, yell at him—by the Valar, at this point, Golradir would have been contented with a withering glance! But no, no one said anything, no one cast so much as a bitter eye his way.

Golradir was alone in his wretchedness, and he slumped a bit on his mount's back, utterly despondent in a misery that had absolutely nothing to do with the snow still clinging in resolute patches to the chunks of hair he had not thought to braid.

………

"Elrohir!"

The younger twin looked up quickly with such an innocent expression on his face that he was quite obviously feeling guilty. "Yes, my brother?" he asked politely.

Elladan glowered, for a moment almost the spitting image of their father when Lord Elrond was in a temper. "Where," he asked with the same dangerous calm that all of Imladris (although no one more so than the twins, and perhaps Glorfindel) recognized as a very strong warning sign, "is Fuiniel?"

"Why, she is right…here…" Elrohir's voice trailed off disconsolately as he saw Legolas was feeding some of their packed grain to not one horse, but two. He groaned mightily; he had been certain that the elflings would be too tired from the hard days of riding and cold weather to cause any trouble. And they had only paused for a few minutes to rest and feed the horses. They hadn't even intended to stay long enough for a quick snack (which Elrohir rather resented, but if someone as young as Legolas wasn't going to complain, _he _certainly wasn't. Then again, Legolas was rather small, and thus obviously required far less nourishment than the more impressively sized warrior-Elf known as Elrohir of Imlad—)

"Elrohir!" his brother exclaimed in exasperation, now looking—and sounding—rather like Celebrían when the twins had been particularly aggravating.

"Would you pick one of them and stick with it?" Elrohir muttered under his breath. "Having both of them on me at once is a bit much, do you not think?" but he said it so quietly that if Elladan even heard, he easily chose to ignore his brother's irreverence as both time-wasting and inconsequential.

"Did you at _least _see which way she went?" the elder twin asked, rolling his eyes—now bearing an uncanny resemblance to Arwen. This was getting out of hand. Elrohir had to put a stop to this before—Valar forbid—he found his grandmother lecturing him out of Elladan's eyes. _That _would just be taking this familial similarity bit unfairly far.

"If I saw which way she went I would have noticed she was going," Elrohir snapped back, "and I would have stopped her!"

"Providing your brains were functioning," Elladan shot back.

"Since I've had to share so many with you to make up for your status as a half-wit," Elrohir began, but he never had the chance to finish his rather eloquent insult.

"Are you speaking of Fuiniel?" Legolas interrupted politely. Both twins turned to stare at him as if they had forgotten he was there. Legolas's cheeks flushed ever so faintly at their gawping stares, but he stood his ground. Ada had told him that while interrupting someone was generally considered to be the height of rudeness, occasionally it was not merely useful but necessary in a tense diplomatic situation. And given how Fuiniel had been driving both of Elrond's sons to rather aggravated distraction of late, Legolas judged that this was just such an instance.

"No," Elrohir muttered, put out with himself for losing track of the elfling, with his brother for being so accusatory when it was a mistake anyone could make, and with Legolas for spoiling his beautiful insult, "we were speaking of the _other_ grim, foreboding elf-maid that we've been enduring the company of these past few snowy days."

Elladan elbowed him and nodded. "Ay," he said, much more politely if a bit tiredly, "have you seen which way she went?"

Legolas nodded emphatically, his little face earnest. "She said that she did not like the feel of the land, and that she was going to scout."

"At night?" Elladan murmured in exasperation, but he said it to himself.

"Well, I'm glad she thought to inform us," Elrohir said with equal exasperation but more volume. "A company travels so well when one of their number randomly sneaks off in the middle of the night to get the lay of the land." He was already grumpy that the elf-maid had convinced them all to take their rest only during daylit hours, and scant rest it was at that; he did not need her constant reminders that she not only could see better in the dark than he could—for all that his own sight was no small ability—but that she was their resident orc expert, despite the thorough and eagerly absorbed training of himself and his twin.

"Peace," Elladan said a bit more sharply than he meant to. "I am sure she did not go far, and she would take no unwise risks." The second half of his statement sounded a good bit less certain than did the first, and Elrohir rolled his eyes.

"Either that or she has tired of our apparently so disagreeable company and decided to abandon it to make for Greenwood alone," the younger twin said somewhat mutinously.

Elladan raised an eyebrow. "And leave Legolas to our obviously inept care? I think not, brother."

The princeling in question rolled his eyes and sighed. He didn't know why his friends couldn't get along. He liked Fuiniel and he liked the twins, and they had certainly seemed to like each other when they had been in Imladris and plotting their escape. Why were they always snapping at one another now?

Legolas was too young himself to understand the feeling of jealous resentment that came from knowing that an elfling less than half your age was more experienced in something that you had spent half your life training for. He was also familiar enough with _yrch_ to know better than to envy Fuiniel her greater experience with combating them.

But then, the twins had never truly managed to wrap their optimistic thoughts around what orcs could do. They understood readily enough that they were evil, vile creatures who were a blight upon the surface of Arda and ought to be removed before they harmed anyone else. They understood that to fall into their clutches was an evil thing indeed. They understood…but they did not _know. _

And while they would never admit it…they were also a little _afraid._

The constant anticipation of battle forever delayed had been preying upon the twins heavily ever since they rode out from Imladris. Fuiniel had cautioned them so many times about the dangers of orcs and the worry that they might be nearby that their nerves were now so jangled that the fact of _not _seeing an orc soon would have caused them to snap. This anticipation had been building up with all the horror stories they had ever heard of the foul creatures, and right now it culminated in riding with a state of constant, unrelieved tension. They knew that evil was out there, waiting for them, perhaps somewhere near…but the unending suspense had taken its toll on even their irrepressible natures.

So the twins should perhaps be excused if, when Fuiniel came silently slipping back over a snowy bank, her face as white in the faint moonlight as her pale backdrop, breathing heavily a single word, "_yrch_…" they should perhaps be excused the momentary panic that seized their muscles, holding them as strictly still as if they had been made out of mithril.

Then their eyes met and the fire that smoldered in all Elves when confronted with the Enemy released a few warm sparks in their matched grey depths.

"At last," one of the twins breathed, and the other nodded. It mattered not which did what; they were suddenly as completely of one mind as they had ever been.

"They did not see me," Fuiniel murmured as she quickly scooped up the sack of grain that had fallen from Legolas's suddenly frozen fingers and pushed both it and he towards the horse. "But they are near. We must go, and with great haste, for their numbers are large and the night is young."

The four young Elves leapt to their steeds. The chase was on.

………….

Aglarmegil swore and ducked and tightened his grip on his sword as the spray of black blood caught the side of his face. He shook his head to clear as much of the filth away as he could and grimaced, thankful that it had missed both eyes and mouths. He could already taste enough of the horrible liquid on his tongue this day, mixed sickeningly with the sweet copper of Elvish blood.

As he yanked his sword free of the new corpse his eyes instinctively flickered to the golden-haired Elf fighting beside him, making certain that Prince Thranduil still stood unharmed. Tiraran, fighting on Thranduil's other side, caught Aglarmegil's eye as he did the same thing, and flashed a small, tight grin. Aglarmegil could not bring his face to twitch into a return gesture, but he nodded, silently telling the guard that his assistance was appreciated but it was safe now that the rest of the company had made their way to him, and Tiraran could return to Oropher.

As he turned back to cut another of the foul _yrch _his lips did spasm into something that might have been called a smile once, but it held no traces of mirth in its bitter expression. "_Safe,_" he thought darkly, as if anything on this accursed battlefield was _safe. _Tiraran understood what he meant, and expertly began cutting his way back to the king. When Thranduil and Aglarmegil had been separated by a twisting tide of _yrch _Tiraran had somehow appeared next to them, guarding the prince's other side while the rest of Aglarmegil's company fought their way over to them. Now he was on his way back to Oropher, but while none of the Mirkwood soldiers could match Tiraran's uncanny ease with a blade, even those who had centuries of practice on the young warrior, Aglarmegil did not worry unduly for the prince. Oropher needed all of his guard, and Thranduil's had now arrived.

Aglarmegil spared another glance in between parries for the _gon_ of said guard and was rewarded with a grim nod. Black blood smeared a smooth cheek beneath the palest of oaken locks and Aglarmegil had to battle the urge to stop fighting long enough to wipe the travesty away. No one as beautiful as Angmeril should ever be touched by the filthy blood of the _yrch_, but he quickly turned away before the _gon_ could read his eyes. If Aglarmegil had allowed himself to entertain thoughts of an "after," they might had featured a time when he could have touched those oaken strands, could have brushed his fingers across that pale face and seen the grimness evaporate, but he refused to think beyond the battle. The only way to keep fighting was to fight in the moment, to fight for nothing farther away than the moment after, and then the moment after that. Otherwise the weight of all the future that could be would bow a warrior down and slow him with heavy possibility. And then he would die.

Without looking behind him, he could see Angmeril gliding between _yrch_ that fell before they realized they were dead to stand at Thranduil's side. Without looking he could see her sword twist and dance next to a long knife, the two blades shinning in his mind although in reality they were black with blood. Without looking around he could see her easily catch a blow aimed at the prince and turn it aside almost casually, where the _orch_ would be carved up before it realized that the iron-spirited Elf-maid had touched it with her blades. Without looking he could tell that her face never moved, its grim solemnity as hard as the _gon's_ heart had been forged by this war.

There was a sweeping sound followed by heavy thuds and Aglarmegil had to look over his shoulder for the strange noise. Merilgais held a long spear in her hands and was just flipping the point into the chest of a fallen _orch_. The grimness on her face had become a steely grin and her eyes glittered as sharply as the sword that hung at her waist. Apparently she had scavenged a spear from one of the Númenóreans, finding the longer reach more to her liking as she watched her elder sister's back. She was the _gon's_ second, there to guard her so that Angmeril could devote her attention to keeping the prince safe, and Merilgais was good at her job, if unorthodox. Last battle she had fought with a tent pole, Aglarmegil distantly recalled as he turned away from the sisters once more, and she had done as much damage as any sword-bearing Elf. For all that they were maidens, they were skillful warriors both, trained by their indomitable mother, Gilthawen, who fought now directly under Tiraran as Oropher's secondary _gon _and was, no doubt, terrifying _yrch_ as easily as most mothers could hum a lullaby.

If Aglarmegil had ever allowed himself to think of an _after_…

But he could not. All of Greenwood was well aware of how slim the chance of an after was, not only for themselves but for all their kin. If they did not defeat the Dark Lord here and now, not just their beloved forest but all of Middle-earth was poised to fall beneath Sauron's foul domain. None of the warriors, _ellon_ or _elleth_, would hesitate to give his or her life to prevent this, and Aglarmegil knew better than to dishonor Angmeril by hoping that she would do differently. She could fall at any time, and so could he. Best not to think of an _after. _The future looked grim from where they stood, and entertaining fancies only distracted you when you could not afford it. Angmeril was a warrior before she was a maid, and Aglarmegil her soldier before he was anything else.

When Rhosslas had fallen there had been no debate; his older sister Angmeril immediately took his place at Thranduil's side as if she were his new _gon_ and no one had ever thought otherwise. Thranduil had hardly needed to make it official; everyone was already following her orders. The only argument over her appointment had been with the forces of Gil-galad but it had been short and Oropher had silenced it quickly enough. Greenwood would take care of its own business and their allies would stay out of it. Aglarmegil used a bit more force than necessary on his current target, still simmering that Thranduil's ability had been questioned by that annoying _peredhel_. Elrond might be in King Gil-galad's confidence, but that gave him no right to speak like that to the Greenwood prince.

A light snort at his side almost brought another smile to his face, and it did remind him that not all of Greenwood had immediately liked the idea, but Engwalyg was one of Thranduil's most devoted soldiers and, by rights, the likely candidate to succeed Rhosslas as _gon_ were it not for Angmeril. Engwalyg was allowed to question the prince, and he had done so respectfully, making sure that Thranduil was not endangering the lovely but deadly Angmeril out of a misguided sense of duty to her dead brother. He had accepted the prince's judgement and now fought easily as second-_gon_ of the company.

He also easily read the reason for Aglarmegil's unusually enthusiastic skewering of the _orch_ and raised an amused eyebrow at his friend. The smile he summoned back in return felt wan and bitter on Aglarmegil's face, but it was a smile nonetheless. Relieved that he had arrived and was largely unscathed—as unscathed as any in this war—Aglarmegil deftly switched places with his friend. Engwalyg belonged at Thranduil's side, just as he belonged at Engwalyg's. Just as Merilgais watched her sister's side, his job was to guard Engwalyg, who could then devote _his_ full attention to protecting Thranduil.

The prince might be a more cautious fighter than their king, but he had Oropher's temper and there was always the chance that he might do something reckless, so they watched him carefully. Greenwood had followed their two beacons of gold to Mordor's ruined blackness and they were determined to follow them to the end, whatsoever that end might be. For all that Gil-galad was the High King of the Noldor; for all that the light of Aman shone in his eyes that had never beheld any land West of the Havens; for all that he had seemingly walked out of legend to unite the Free Peoples and save them from darkness; for all that his forces worshipped their High King, Greenwood would never trade their simple gold for that starlit glory.

The Silvan Elves loved their proud king and his son, and it was a fondness that Gil-galad could never obtain. The High King was a great lord and a glorious, unassailable legend but he was also untouchable. Where Gil-galad walked Elves and Men alike would bow not because of title or rank but because one could not help but bow before that glory. For all that Oropher was a Sindar ruler of Silvan peoples, he was one of them. Their king was proud but it was a warrior's pride, not a legend's. Let Gil-galad awe with his presence; Oropher was like kin to his soldiers and not a one of them would hesitate to die for him—not because he was their lord whom they loved, but because they loved he who happened to be their lord.

Thranduil inspired the same type of loyalty that his father did, and was more brother than prince to the warriors of Greenwood. They could argue and joke with their royal family for all that they respected them and while Gil-galad was the legendary sort of hero that ballads craved and people worshipped there was a closeness between Greenwood's forces that the High Elves could never have.

Engwalyg had said once that this was because no Elf of Greenwood had ever betrayed another, and Aglarmegil had been among those who quietly cheered the sharp-tongued warrior when the proud Noldor's haughty gaze was slapped into shocked silence at the words. The Noldor might look down upon their Silvan brethren as a simple folk, but they were a proud one and did not take such slights lightly. They were also a united front and when a furious Noldor Lord swore punishment upon the Elf who dared speak so about his kinsmen not a one of their number would name the speaker. Thranduil himself had forced Engwalyg to be silent and told the Noldor Lord that any soldier of Greenwood would be glad to speak so, if he required them to repeat the words, and the soldiers and prince alike had laughed and cheered Engwalyg's verbal blow to their arrogant allies.

Gil-galad could command the almost worshipful respect of his troops but the House of Oropher could command Greenwood's forces like kin.

And it was like kin that Aglarmegil stepped into the blow of the _orch_.

Aglarmegil saw the _orch_ batter Eregmegil aside. He saw Angmeril's blades locked with an Uruk. He saw Merilgais's spear catch on the jagged plate of her foe's armor. He saw Engwalyg lunge forward to gut an _orch_. He saw Thranduil engage an _orch_ chieftain, unaware of the danger coming from behind. He saw the golden-haired Elf's unprotected back and the _orch_ running forward and he saw his own sword stick on the ribs of his enemy. Then time started up again and Aglarmegil released his sword's hilt and lunged. He did not throw himself between the foul creature and his prince because it was his duty; he did so because it was like throwing himself between death and a brother. The Elf gave a sharp cry as the jagged blade split his armor and cast him to the ground, but he did not tremble at the death he knew was about to claim him.

Eyes already bleary saw Angmeril turn towards him and for an instant something almost like the future shone in their meeting eyes, but then it was gone without regret. There was Thranduil skewering the _orch_ with a wordless cry of rage, then the prince was kneeling next to him. He felt the blue eyes catch his own but while he strained his ears he could not hear the words Thranduil was mouthing at him. He tried to tell his prince to get up, to leave him before some foul _orch_ struck the distracted lord, but his voice would not come. Aglarmegil struggled desperately against the darkness rushing in his head; Thranduil could not risk himself like this! Then there was a shadow above the prince that had nothing to do with Mordor and the _yrch_ fell back.

Engwalyg, hair as black as the blood spattered across his battered leather armor, spun and slashed like a dark blade that was everywhere at once. His face a set mask of cold fury at the foul horde, he moved with such abrupt grace that he could almost have been dancing rather than fighting were it not for a disquieting harshness to his motions as they _yrch _fell around him.

At last Aglarmegil relaxed. With Engwalyg to protect him, no harm would dare come to Thranduil. The Elf closed his eyes, waiting for the call of Mandos. He could go now; his prince would be safe…


	32. Immortal Determination

**Chapter Thirty-Two: Immortal Determination**

Arwen's eyes were blank as she chewed absently on her hair. For once, her mother did not stop her. Celebrían was too distracted with her own thoughts to take notice of her daughter's bad habit, even sitting on the bench next to her. The two Elves watched the sky with anxious eyes and even more anxious hearts. It had been some days since Elrond and his company had set out, and there had been no word.

_They should have found the twins by now! _The disquieting thought repeated itself like a mantra echoed in both their minds, shared as perfectly as if Galadriel had been sitting by her daughter and _her_ daughter and joining their minds as one. And perhaps, far away, Galadriel was sharing this distress, but if she was, neither Celebrían nor Arwen had felt the soothing mental touch of the Lady of Light. At this point, they would have accepted the soothing touch of just about anyone, even Glorfindel's stubborn horse.

What they got instead was a discreet cough that caused them both to spin around violently. Erestor must have been waiting an exceptionally long time for them to notice his arrival if the proper councilor had felt the need to go so far as to make noise. Gray eyes flashing with eagerness, worry, and desperate hope, the Ladies of Imladris practically skewered the poor Elf with their gaze. Surely, Erestor was bringing them the looked-for good news…

Their faces fell before he could speak. From the doleful look on his eternally serious face, Erestor had nothing but disappointment to offer—again. He tried to summon up a hopeful expression, but Erestor was much better at dire and dreary than he was at encouraging and cheering. The brief look of forced happiness abruptly soured as he realized that they had already seen through his frail pretense.

With a sigh and a shaky half-smile, Erestor did his best to brighten their spirits. "The scouts report that the snowstorm has ceased," he offered tentatively.

Arwen sighed and her small head drooped like a puppet whose strings have just been severed. Celebrían nodded, her face a blank mask to hide her own disappointment. "Thank you," she managed to say politely enough before her eyes were inexorably drawn back to the sky.

"They will, uh, no doubt have success in locating the elflings now that the weather has improved," Erestor added somewhat desperately. Celebrían nodded again, absently, but Arwen didn't even bother to acknowledge that he had spoken. She was trying as hard as she ever had to reach out to her brothers, but now she found herself torn between hoping that they were all right and would be continuing on unimpeded, and hoping that they were all right and would soon be found by ada.

Of course, she was simultaneously worrying that they were, in fact, _not _all right…

But—despite the fact that all three Elves were plagued with that same idea—she did not want to think about _that_. Surely her brothers and their two young charges were _fine_. It was _only _a snowstorm, and even if it _had _been a rather bad one, Elladan and Elrohir had made it through bad weather plenty a time before. They even seemed to enjoy it.

And besides, the storm had cleared now. The sky was light again and everything—including and most especially her brothers—were _just fine. _

_Valar,_ Arwen thought, closing her eyes, _let them be fine…_

_ ... ... ... ... ...  
_

Light was painful, but it was better than darkness. Aglarmegil forced his eyes open slowly, wondering at first why he had to open them. When he realized that his body hurt all over a dim memory started to stir but it wasn't until his eyes cleared enough for him to make out the form of Thranduil that he remembered with a start.

He had fallen on the battlefield of the Last Alliance's war, born down by an _orch_'s foul blade; that at least explained why he was in such pain. He blinked and the Healing Tent came into focus around him. So, he was not dead…but what was _Ernil_ Thranduil doing in the Healer's Tent? Worry grabbed Aglarmegil's heart and he looked back at his lord. An irritated frown on his face, Thranduil was fidgeting with a bloody bandage on his arm.

"My lord land, I beg give apology," Aglarmegil stammered, his words slurred and awkward. "I fail I fall and you hard were hurt, my lord, I am will sorry, how can I amend my flailing you will you recover?"

"Peace, friend," Thranduil said mildly, his lips twitching. "Give your thoughts a moment to order themselves, pray, 'ere you try and speak or I fear that even my recent experience sorting out the words of Lord Glorfindel will not be enough for me to make sense of what falls from your lips." The prince rose, his annoying bandage promptly forgotten, and lifted a cup of water to Aglarmegil's lips. "Drink first, then speak."

The warrior tried to protest but Thranduil raised an eyebrow in a silent order and Aglarmegil did as he was bid. In truth, for all that the water carried that ashy tang of Mordor that seemed to permeate the very air with its foul miasma he did feel better for the drink. He took a few moments to try and sort out the tangle of thoughts drifting across his mind, and wondered if perhaps he had been drugged. Certainly it felt like the Healers had gotten a hold of his senses with one of their foul brews or another.

Aglarmegil sighed, knowing that he had a tendency, when under the influence of most healing potions, to lose his grasp on words and babble like an addle-brained child. He couldn't very well ask Thranduil to come back when they had worn off, however; while the forces of the Enemy were apparently giving them a brief reprieve the Elf knew that battle could begin again at any moment and the prince would be needed to help King Oropher lead their people.

"Now, do you wish to try again?" Thranduil asked gently.

Aglarmegil nodded, regretting the action as soon as he made it, but forced his eyes to open while he tried stubbornly to ignore the spinning of the tent. He forced himself to speak slowly, choosing each word with care, but his words still came out sounding as if he had drunk three casks of rich wine. "I am…apologize…I am sorry for…disapas…dispa…failing you, my…lord. I do, did not…I wish…"

Thranduil interrupted sternly. "Nonsense!" he snapped loudly enough to draw a disapproving glance from the nearest Healer. The Greenwood prince paid no attention. "You saved my life, Aglarmegil, and I am grateful beyond all belief!"

"But…" Aglarmegil tried but he spoke far too slowly.

The prince's eyebrows snapped into a frown as he continued. "But if you ever use your_self_ as a shield for me again, I shall be forced to kill you myself," he warned. "What were you thinking?"

Blinking rapidly the Elf managed to sort out his tongue, more or less, although he spoke too quickly for to truly keep up with it. "I was finking…thinking…that I could mm…could not…free me, my ssshword…in time, my lllord, and thhat…your wi…life was…in danger." He directed a somewhat blurry glare at the prince above his cot.

Thranduil's mouth opened and shut but no sharp response emerged. "I am grateful," he replied in an earnest, soft voice. Then an eyebrow twitched and the prince grinned. "However, you ought not to do anything of that sort again, for if you die to save me I am certain that Engwalyg would kill me in repayment, negating all your efforts. Speaking of, I believe that I shall take my leave. These Noldor Healers dislike more than one visitor at a patient's side. Good day, and my thanks once more." The prince rose in a flurry of messy gold and muddy green that made Aglarmegil's head spin and the Elf was forced to close his eyes.

Dimly, he heard a familiar voice asking wryly, "and when, my lord, have you ever cared for the likes or dislikes of our erstwhile allies?"

"Since they asked me politely," Thranduil replied smoothly. His answer was met by a short, sharp bark of laughter that was more derision than amusement, and then there was the sound of motion at his side. Aglarmegil slowly opened swimming eyes to see the half-focused form of Engwalyg sitting where the prince had been moments before.

The dark-haired warrior raised an eyebrow and his lips quirked sideways. "It seems you are having your usual delightful time with the healing draughts they have fed you," he commented.

Aglarmegil smiled somewhat wanly. "Ay," he agreed softly, then clamped his mouth shut before he could babble something embarrassing.

Engwalyg snorted. "Well, I do hope, at least, that you have learned a valuable lesson, my friend. Try to remember from henceforth: swords are made for parrying, bodies for dodging. When you confuse the two purposes, you end up in such straights as you find yourself now."

The best Aglarmegil could manage was an attempt at a haughty frown, but something told the Elf that he had not pulled it off so well as he might have hoped. He gave it up, and instead mumbled, "perhaps when oozing…using…a ssshword then, I…shallow, sallow…shall…prove ffffast 'nough…to pear…spare…Prince Thwan…dan…Thrawn…" Scowling, he gave up on getting the young lord's name out. "The prince…inchery, injury, next tttime."

Engwalyg's eyebrows shot up so quickly someone must have given a command to fire arrows from them. "Surely you jest," the Elf burst out in surprise. Apparently seeing no sarcasm in Aglarmegil's drug-glazed eyes the other rolled his much sharper ones in exasperation. "I suppose then that you fell unconscious too soon to be aware of Thranduil himself taking you from the field of battle? I would say that he is lucky to have come out with only such a scratch had it not been that he was in a wrath to make King Oropher himself proud. Fearsome indeed to behold it was, my friend, and I do not doubt that the _yrch_ made only half-hearted swings for all that he seemed a target of opportunity. Between his anger and our blades he was in little danger, really."

"That…ish good," Aglarmegil said, resisting the urge to nod. His head felt a bit clearer, but it was beginning to get rather heavy and he thought lifting it might be beyond him, even if he had felt like risking sending the tent spinning again. "Yet I shhtill musht…apple, appol…a pole…be sorry for, for nnnot being abble…able to keep mmy…promishh we mad, map, made. Made."

Engwalyg arched an eyebrow in confusion. "It could be the herbs, but I must confess that I know not of what you speak."

"We pppromised tto…gwaurd each otherrr…on the fell…fold…field," he insisted despite his stumbling tongue.

The Elf that could still form words without a struggle snorted. "Do no trouble yourself, my friend," he said with a slight smile. "I believe that I can excuse you from such an agreement when you are unable to speak, let alone stand without assistance."

"Then at leash…least, you musht…promish mmme you well…while…will be curt…carf…careful more than…ushuall…untill I amm…there again tto wash…watch for you back up." He frowned, as much to express the seriousness of his insistance as because he knew the words hadn't come out right.

His friend knew what he meant, though; at least enough to refuse. "And if you can be so fearless in your protection of our fellows and our prince, how can you expect me to do differently?" he asked with a smile. Then dark grey eyes flashed towards the tent's entrance at something that the injured Elf's senses were too dulled to pick up. Engwalyg hid a grin. "But I see that you tire."

"Nnno…" the injured Elf tried to protest, but in vain.

"I would judge that you have moments only 'ere sleep overtakes you once more, so I shall be swift and merely scold you once more for foolhardiness. If you were to get yourself killed I should be most put out with you, my friend." Then Engwalyg's voice and smile both turned sly. "Further, I know a certain elleth who would be grieved if anything should happen to you…and I do like to keep my _gon_ happy." He glanced towards the entrance again and seemed to laugh to himself, then rose smoothly to his feet with a wink before Aglarmegil could get his mouth working again.

The wounded Elf could tell he was blushing as he struggled not to fall asleep, because Angmeril had just walked in, Merilgais trailing uncomfortably behind her sister. Neither of them was fond of centers of Healing, but they had come in to see him anyway—he must stay awake at least long enough to exchange pleasantries and thank them for doing so, especially Angmeril.

But this battle was a losing one, and the last sight Aglarmegil had was a blurred glimpse of Angmeril smiling softly before the fuzzy darkness claimed him.

Thranduil nodded to his _gon_ and her sister, but did not waste their time exchanging any words. He knew well how little taste these two elf-maids had for the Healing Tents, and it had been obvious that Aglarmegil would not be awake much longer. Best not to hold them up from visiting their injured comrade.

Distracted as he was by thoughts of his warriors, the young prince of Greenwood didn't notice Gil-galad's herald until he had nearly stepped on him. Dodging with absent Elven agility, Thranduil prepared to walk by Elrond without realizing his identity, but the _peredhel_ had other plans.

Heavy brow furrowed and gray eyes snapping, Elrond caught Thranduil's arm to stop the preoccupied prince in his tracks. Thranduil blinked and frowned at the herald in confusion and perhaps a small bit of impatience, as well. Whatever was bothering Elrond now, he did not have the time to deal with it at the moment. He had to track down his adar and…

"_Ernil_ Thranduil," Elrond said shortly, "we must speak."

Thranduil raised an eyebrow. "Now?" he asked mildly enough to annoy even Círdan. "Is it something important?"

Elrond's frown deepened ever-so-slightly. "Vastly," the young herald replied dryly, unamused.

Thranduil sighed and tried not to let his impatience show on his face. "What is it?" he asked shortly, ignoring Elrond's attempt to draw him away from the opening flap into the tent. If he let Elrond drag him off somewhere more private, it would doubtless be half the day before the rather verbose _peredhel_ got around to finishing whatever it was he wanted to talk about.

Elrond seemed immensely displeased but decided not to press that particular point. "I should like to discuss with you your father's suggestion during this morning's strategy session."

Thranduil blinked sharply, forcing his face into a neutral expression. "What point is there in discussing a strategy that has been decided against?" he asked as blandly as possible. "If you wished to agree with our plan, you should have done so during the discussion. You could, I suppose, seek out Gil-galad now and tell him you have changed your mind, but I do not see what good that would do."

Elrond's face impossibly became only more serious. And rather _less _amused. "Hardly," he replied shortly. "I agree wholeheartedly with my lord." The herald's voice took on the same neutral tone as the one Thranduil had adopted. "I further hope that Oropher is not planning on carrying out such a foolhardy plan."

If possible, Thranduil's voice dropped even deeper into bland innocence. "I am sure that my lord would never act against the decision of the council," he answered smoothly.

Apparently neutral blandness wasn't enough to assuage Elrond's doubts, for the young _peredhel_'s brows drew together further, defying any law that had ever governed frowns. "You must convince him to abandon it," Elrond argued, abandoning neutrality for vehemence.

"What is to convince?" Thranduil asked, his voice sticking with its previous tone and even improving upon it. "You were at the strategy session and know as well as I do that it was decided against a charge."

Elrond's words became more fervent, his fingers clutching the handful of Thranduil's cape in their grasp as if he could drag Greenwood's prince into agreement. "Gil-galad will _not _order the army to follow him if he—"

"Lord Elrond," Thranduil's voice became chill enough to freeze a Nazgûl, "what would ever give you the impression that Greenwood's King would break our plans?"

The herald's sharp eyes flashed. "Curse it, Thranduil," he began, but was cut off.

"If you will excuse me," he said coolly, "I am needed with my warriors."

Thranduil bowed perfunctorily—more an insult, coming from the haughty Greenwood royalty, than it would have been _not _to bow to the herald—and swept away, dragging his cape with him. He moved deliberately but still rapidly enough that the fuming Elrond was left abruptly behind as the prince dodged back into the supposedly controlled chaos that was a battle camp.

Inside, however, Oropherion was neither so calm nor as certain as he had let on. Out of sight of Gil-galad's nosy herald, Thranduil allowed a concerned frown to return to his face as worry quickened his steps. Although he would have refused to admit it under any nature of torment, he agreed with Elrond's worry. He well knew his father's stubbornness (having inherited that particular gift, he was intimately familiar with how it worked) and feared that Oropher might indeed take it into his head to carry out the plan, consequences, council agreement—and especially Gil-galad!—be damned. He could well decide to force the army to simply follow him, all previously approved plans to the contrary.

While Thranduil had no doubt that the plan was sound, a niggling tinge of insecurity made him think that perhaps it was not quite so certain a victory as Oropher had stated. Likewise, and far more worrying, he knew that unless their allies immediately gave in to the inevitable and followed Oropher, the charge could be fearfully bloody for them all, and the Greenwood warriors especially.

Even if all went according to his father's plan, the prince knew that it would not under any circumstance go so well afterwards. Gil-galad, especially, would be furious, and the Men would side with him—all their allies would. Oropher must know that these lords were not the kind one forced into an agreement against their wishes any more than _he _was, and the post-battle discussions would be exceptionally vehement. Even Glorfindel would no doubt have some choice words, and being lectured by the ancient-child was rather unnerving. And for all that Elendil was mortal, he, too, could become rather imposing when he wished, and while Thranduil would never shrink before the wrath of a Man, he nonetheless had a healthy respect for the aged lord and his anger.

The ultimate outcome of such a charge would, of course, leave Mordor's troops in a route—Oropher was certain of this, and Thranduil was certain in his father—but where, exactly, would it leave _them?_

_ ... ... ... ... ...  
_

Brittle gold glittered dangerously in cold fragments of winter sunlight slicing through the carved window of Thranduil's chamber as the king buckled his armor. His face was set and while he looked still insubstantial the armor anchored him to the forest. It looked as if without the dying green leaves of leather molded around his frail form, the king could vanish in a slight breeze. His armor protected more than his body; it held his _fëa_ from Mandos's Halls. A soft sound at the door brought his head up and he stared silently at his _gon_.

Thranduil's eyes were still dead, but the cold ashes of hatred smoldered there. His lips curled into a sharp approximation of a smile but it looked like a gash in his face rather than a natural expression. Tiraran, something cold in his gut, mimicked the expression, his own eyes almost as cold for all that they, at least, held life.

"My lord," the Elvish _gon_ said, "the forces are prepared."

Thranduil nodded and lifted his cloak to his shoulders. As he pinned it there Tiraran walked forward holding a belt and blade in his hands.

"And here," he continued quietly, "is your sword." The _gon_ buckled the belt around his king's too-thin waist and stepped back.

"Thank you," Thranduil whispered.

The two warriors nodded to one another and swept from the room, Tiraran falling in behind his king once more at last. When they reached the courtyard a force of some forty Elves was arrayed before him. All were dressed for battle in molded leather armor and all bore a bow and quiver on their backs. At their waists were belted swords, although some also carried particular weapons that they were fond of. All were silent, eyes fixed firmly on their king in a mixture of despairing hope and worshipful awe.

Their king, their _aralor_, whom they had never thought to see ride to war again, was going to lead them once more in battle against their foul Enemy. Thranduil had returned to them and for all that sharp Elvish eyes could see clear signs of frailty also could they see the unbending strength of Thranduil's will, now mixed equal parts with vengeance and determination. They would repay the _yrch_ a thousand-fold and wipe that scourge from the forests of Greenwood with their _aralor_ at their head. Their gold might be brittle and hard, but it would not break.

The Elves did not cheer as Thranduil appeared, but he nodded to them and a low whisper like the sound of spirits too long tormented spread through the courtyard. "_Aralor,_" the Elves murmured, and in their voices was more than a name, more than a king.

_Aralor._

The trees picked up the chant, carrying it through frozen leaves and ice-encased branches to the farthest reaches of the forest. _Aralor_, they whispered, and although the _yrch_ could not hear the words still they were uneasy in the forest. _Aralor_, Greenwood breathed, and the wind sounded like a lament as it whistled over the stiff frozen drifts between the trunks. _Aralor_, the forest chanted, and Elven eyes flashed as they followed their king into the trees. _Aralor_, they thought, and foul things trembled.

_Gold-head-slaughter-son_ rode again.


	33. Impediments and Distractions

**Chapter Thirty-Three: Impediments and Distractions**

The day was bright and clear, and already the twins were used to sleeping through these warm afternoon hours. Not today, though. Today they needed the light to guard the elflings while they were separated. It was only knowing that orcs would not move in sunlight that had convinced the twins that it was safe to leave them for a time, necessary 'though this was.

Now all they had to worry about was Imladris's forces finding the elflings without the twins nearby. If Elrond learned that the brothers had left the children alone to watch their mounts, even for so short a time, the brothers knew they would be very nearly doomed to an eternity of confinement within the Homely House and certainly never to be permitted to join the warriors on their patrols again—truly, a fate worse than death.

But risks or not, this needed to be done. For all that Elven horses were light of foot, they were still horses, not Elves, and they could not walk atop crumbling snow. It was not usually a problem, for snow did not often fall or collect in height that would impede the glorious steeds of Imladris. But here at the foot of the Pass of Caradhras there was a drift taller than Legolas.

Granted, that was not particularly tall, but it was large enough that the horses would have had a horrible struggle trying to force their way through it. So instead, the twins would do so for them. They heaved and dug and strained and shoved, making slow progress but moving steadily forward. Digging through snow that they could run easily across the top of was an unfamiliar experience for the brothers, and they had quickly decided that this was another very good reason to be glad that they were edhel rather than edain. Imagine, having to slog your way through snow _every time_ you needed to cross it.

"I almost wish we hadn't brought the horses," Elrohir panted mutinously.

"I would have made you carry all our supplies," Elladan grinned back.

"Without the horses, that would be a good deal lighter, so I would not have complained."

"Yes you would have."

"Well, fair enough, but I would not have _meant _it when I did so."

Elladan snorted and dashed snow out of his eyes. Anxious, the brothers glanced up at the mountain again, but all was still. The drift gave out as the path started to rise, shrinking back to a manageable level. Indeed, the path was only lightly covered once one made it through this barrier—Elrohir had run ahead to see—but that did not exactly make the twins feel comfortable. To be sure, it meant an easier time of crossing the pass, but…why would the mountain's path be so comparatively free of snow? With the way the winds had been blowing all around during the storm of a few days ago, the brothers supposed it was _possible_ that the path had been scoured mostly clean…but it made them antsy nonetheless. Glorfindel had told them many strange things about this particular mountain…

_But then again_, Elrohir thought, _Glorfindel tells us many strange things about_everything_, and we long ago learned not to always trust his stories._ Spirits considerably brighter, Elrohir pondered chucking a ball of snow at his twin, but decided against it. Elladan did not look to be in the mood for a snowball fight, and in truth, Elrohir would have felt bad about having one that the elflings could not join in on for he was quite fond of the children. Then again, he had a feeling that Fuiniel would want to flay him alive if he so much as mouthed the word "snowball" around her, so perhaps he would forgo that sort of activity until they were safely in Greenwood.

_Greenwood._ He grimaced—and suddenly realized that they were completely out of earshot of the elflings. "What do you think, brother?" he asked.

Elladan turned a withering glare on his twin. "What do I think about _what_?" he asked in a voice that attempted to mimic their father at his most superior.

Elrohir rolled his eyes. "You know very well," he responded tartly.

"Elrohir, swift 'though I am, there is no one in all of Arda who could follow the twisted jumps of reason that your mind calls thinking."

The younger twin gave his brother an exasperated look.

Elladan caved. "All right, all right," he said swiftly to forestall some form of—probably snowy—vengeance. "We are bringing him back his son. King Thranduil will be overjoyed to see us, whatever he feels about the rest of Elvendom."

"Either that or he will murder us for risking his son's life with a guard of only two young, untried brothers and a single elf-maid who is our only combat-savvy companion," the other pointed out.

Elladan's face blanched a bit, but he firmly shook his head. "From what Glorfindel and others have said, Thranduil is not one to approve of waiting but rather the type who looks a risk in the eye and lets it flee before his determination."

"All right, so he is as reckless as we are, or at least he was a few hundred years ago before he disappeared into his forest. That does not mean that he will appreciate _our _taking risks with _his_ _son_."

"Well, when we return with no harm done to the lad, it will hardly matter to him what _might_have occurred. He will at any rate be too overjoyed to see the boy again to think of such things right away," Elladan said firmly.

"I do not know," Elrohir mused slowly. "Losing his…his queen, that might have, well, altered his view on risk-taking. Especially when it concerns his family…"

Both gave a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. Thranduil's queen…Legolas's mother…and orcs. The twins grimaced, not wanting to think about the fate alluded to by Fuiniel on the practice grounds of Imladris. The idea had been horrible enough to think of back there were it was safe, where their own mother was only a moment away. Such thoughts, out here with the mountain somehow darkly listening …the twins quickly focused on their work, not wanting, somehow, to attract attention.

Elladan suddenly started. "Legolas's _mother!_" he whispered in sudden revelation. Elrohir, one eyebrow raised in curiosity, turned to face his brother while he waited for the inevitable explanation. "No_wonder_ he always avoided nana!" the older twin added, and suddenly the younger understood.

Elrohir smacked his forehead. "By all the Valar we are dense," he muttered. "She probably reminded the poor child of his own."

"And when she tried to be kind and—and _motherly_ to our poor lost elflings…"

"It was too much like the mother Legolas lost!"

"Caring, soft, gentle, loving…all the things inherent in a mother, Celebrían practically trails like a perfume. It must have been horrible to have such a visible reminder of the sweet nana he lost!"

The twins stared at each other, wondering how they could have been so dense, then threw themselves back into their digging. They were now all the more determined to get the elflings home, and as quickly as they possibly could.

… … … …

The light was fading, but Erestor had yet to notice and light a candle. He was not exactly engrossed in his studies—a far from uncommon circumstance—but to the casual observer, the sight of the advisor bent over obscure scrolls or curling maps without noticing that the sun had set on him was nothing new. The difference now, however, was that rather than being immersed in lore, Erestor found himself…_distracted._

The advisor could have counted himself lucky that Glorfindel was not here to see it. For the Gondolin Elf to spot Erestor in a moment of distraction would be to provide him with months of material for the constant jibes and mockery he so delighted in. Fortunately, Glorfindel was far from here, riding with Lord Elrond to seek the wayward children, and thus was not around to notice. Of course, Erestor was too distracted even to realize his good fortune…

But the question perplexed him. It was not, in and of itself, a matter of grave import or even compelling mystery. The problem—the reason that it continued to prey upon the quiet Elf's mind—was that there was seemingly _no way _for him to find the solution. His great knowledge and greater library had let him down; no where in either his mind or in his study—or, for that matter, in any of the libraries of all Imladris—was there enough information on Greenwood to satisfy his curiosity about the place itself, let alone illuminate the particular matter in question.

Idly, a part of Erestor's mind that was distracted even from the distraction wondered how it was that he had gone so long without noticing this deplorable lack of information about an entire Elven kingdom. Most of his mind, however, was focused upon the distracting question: who _was_Thranduil's queen…and what had happened to her?

Obviously, it had been something horrible. More than likely something deadly, as well, although Erestor supposed that it was vaguely _possible _that she had simply left Middle-earth for the Blessed Realms. He would have expected to have heard something about _that, _of course, but it was admittedly a slim possibility that the news had simply not spread. One did not have to fill out any paperwork to leave for Valinor, after all, one simply had to make one's way to the Havens and wait to board a ship.

More than likely she was dead, though…_whoever _she had been.

And Erestor _knew_that there was no way he could learn this from any information available to him in Imladris, but still the question ate at him. He_knew _that he ought to turn his thoughts to more important matters, to things that he _could _find the solution to, to problems that _needed _to be solved. Just now, in fact, he was_supposed _to be studying maps of the surrounding area and comparing them with data gathered from the Dúnedain in hopes of pinpointing likely locations for orc camps so that any of the foul beasts that might still be hiding nearby could be more easily located and routed.

But for some reason, his mind would not stay focused. Thoughts of Thranduil's queen—utterly useless, pointless, time-wasting thoughts—kept scattering through his head, distracting him as soundly as the Twins had ever done.

Well, perhaps not _that_soundly…but this mystery was on par with Glorfindel's attempts at sidetracking him, at least. And that meant that it was all but impossible to get any work done, try 'though he might.

Sighing heavily, Erestor leaned closer to the maps, as if proximity might inspire his mind to focus where it ought. A vain attempt it might be, but he was chief advisor to Lord Elrond, and he would, at the least, always continue to try. _Even _in the face of Glorfindel.

… … … …

Gildor Inglorion shaded his eyes to glance up at the sun. There was not a cloud in sight; apparently the storm had fully spent itself. What, then, explained the chill slowly crawling up his spine? Somewhere, something was wrong, and as they rode through the drifts of snow, Gildor could not tell whether they were drawing nearer to whatever that was, or whether it was coming to them.

Something else had apparently decided to come to him, specifically, and he almost started from his saddle when Glorfindel's cheery voice rang out a greeting near his ear. For such a boisterous Elf, the Balrog-slayer could be infuriatingly silent when he chose, and his sly horse seemed to have picked up far too many qualities from her rider. Even straining his senses in search of the source of his discomfiture, Gildor had not heard them approach his side. Gildor resisted the desire to urge his horse faster, more because he knew that Kelwioor could outdistance his mount than from politeness. He also resisted the urge to groan; not only would that have been unforgivably rude, it would no doubt have done little more than earn him more of Glorfindel's company, and this day, Inglorion did not think he could bear much of the irrepressibly cheery Elf Lord.

From the sly smile on the Balrog-slayer's face, he was not exactly fooled. Wonderful. Gildor had thought he knew his kinsman well enough to hide his increasing despair, for any sign of depression would promptly force the twice-born Elf to embark upon a mission of cheer, and "cheery" was one thing that Gildor was hardly in the mood to feel. He turned his fiercest glare upon the lighthearted Balrog-slayer but he should have known better than to bother. If Lord Elrond could not cow Glorfindel, Gildor's attempt had been doomed to failure as soon as the Balrog-slayer returned from Mandos.

And frowning, Gildor knew, only made things worse in the end…

Sighing, Gildor glanced around for aid, but no one in their dreary company looked eager to save him from the horror that was Glorfindel on a Mission of Lightening Spirits. He might as well face facts: he was doomed.

… … … …

The sharp clash of Elven steel rang out like pale music over the empty snow. The speed of the blows, smothering each other's echoes, would have led an observer to expect a small raiding party if not a whole warband. Contrary to the noise, there were but four horses and two young elflings, of whom the latter pair were the ones making the musical clashes.

The taller, dark-haired maid went by the name Fuiniel, although likely not from birth. The small, golden-haired lad was Legolas, who found it very annoying to have to introduce himself as _ernil._ They each held an identical white knife, long enough in their small hands that they seemed almost like swords.

"No, turn the blade while you strike, do not hold it steady. You are not planning on smacking someone with it, you want to slide it in past their guard and slash them. Like this."

Fuiniel's slim blade stopped inches away from Legolas's collarbone. The smaller elflings nodded, face serious. "Twist. I see. Like this?"

There was a scraping noise as Legolas's knife skittered along Fuiniel's and then slipped past it to rest gently against her upper arm. A faint smile lightened her dark features.

"Ay," she told her eager pupil, "well done. If you can, aim for something more debilitating than an arm, but do not get distracted by that in the middle of a fight. A killing blow is best, but any cut is going to do you good."

Legolas nodded again, grinning broadly. "You sound like Merilgais," he told her with the air of one bestowing the greatest of compliments possible.

Fuiliel raised an eyebrow. "Who? And do not lower your blade, we are not done."

"Oh, I apologize," Legolas said quickly. He raised his knife again, parrying a sharp blow with more confidence than he would have shown even two days ago. He focused on their mock battle, but kept talking, albeit more slowly than usual. "Merilgais is one of the Elven warriors that guard Greenwood," he explained. "She does not come to the palace often, so I do not see her very much, but she is an excellent warrior. Tiraran says that she is one of the best, he wants to make her a _gon,_but she does not like this idea." Legolas grinned, ducking a swing, and tried to kick Fuiniel's ankle, although she danced out of reach easily. "She does not like many ideas that sound like they would be proper. She does not stay at Court, even though she is my—"

The elfling's story was cut off by the sound of one of the twins shouting a _hullo! _

The battle stopped with one last clash of metal, and the two elflings froze, blades still locked, and turned to stare as Elladan and Elrohir came scrambling over a drift. They were both damp and covered in snow, but grinning broadly.

"We are ready to proceed!" Elrohir announced proudly, sliding to a stop next to their horses.

Fuiniel blinked and lowered her long knife. "That did not take long."

The twins glanced at each other then looked away quickly, fidgeting. "The snow…it did not extend very, uh, high on the pass," the elder twin ventured slowly.

Fuiniel's brows snapped together but she said nothing, only nodded once, slowly, as if the air were heavy.

"It is fortunate for us, for the Pass of Caradhras is not one lightly tried in the dark." Elrohir grinned, but his cheer seemed no more than a shaky veneer that did not mask as much as he would have wished.

The dark Elf-maid shrugged, face set grimly. She sheathed her blade and vaulted to the back of her horse in one smooth motion. Legolas mounted rather less gracefully than the girl and the twins, being so short, but in only a moment the four young Elves had turned their horses East, cantering in a spray of snow-dust sparkles towards the dark shadow of the cold Redhorn peak.

… … … …

Aglarmegil woke with a start and, for an instant, wondered where he was. Then his head swam and the room spun and he remembered: the Healing Tents. He groaned, managed to resist the urge to shake his head, and waited for his vision to clear. It was much faster than yesterday, and the days before that, but still not fast enough to let him leave the tent. He could rise from his cot, but his head spun when he did so. He was in no shape for battle; he wasn't even well enough yet to try and fool Engwalyg and Angmeril and try to bully his way back to the field where he belonged.

Each day he languished over his wounds was one more day when he was not out there protecting his friends and companions, one more day that he was failing his duty. And that hurt far worse than his slowly mending wounds. Every time they managed to snatch a few moments to visit with him, his fellows looked more worn down. And now…now one of them was calling his name.

Aglarmegil forced himself to turn his head slowly and scan the room without making it spin again. It wasn't hard to find the source of the disturbance, though. Merilgais had never been the most demure of maidens, and the War had done nothing to improve her manners. She was currently regaling the Healers with a long string of very loud words that she must have learned from their mortal allies when they didn't know she was nearby. Aglarmegil had no idea what any of the strange words_meant, _but he could guess from her tone that they were not the sort of things the Healers were accustomed to hearing from any of their patients, let alone a delicate Elven maiden.

But they clearly knew nothing of Merilgais, if they were expecting her to patiently lay on her cot and obey their strictures. One of them was trying to scold her into place, but his companion was having more luck trying to forcibly restrain her by pressing on her shoulders with what was clearly his whole weight.

It wasn't enough, of course.

Merilgais snarled and twisted and the Elf went flying in a flurry of gray robes that had been white before ashes and blood had leached them of their purity, and she rocked to her feet, one hand clamped to the bloody bandage around her middle, and, ignoring the Healer fussing at her side, she staggered through the maze of cots and pallets and wounded Elves to his side.

Aglarmegil tried very hard to resist the urge to grin, but seeing the Noldor Healers so thoroughly flustered—not to mention outright frustrated—was truly an entertaining spectacle. They were usually so unruffled and stern, watching them try and deal with the stubborn-enough-she-could-be-related-to-Oropher Elf-maiden was enough to bring a laugh to his lips. He tried to swallow it, not wanting to draw their ire, but it was difficult, even when he felt cold terror for Merilgais spreading through his gut. She was well enough to walk, true, even if it was more of a limping wobble, but he knew Merilgais, and would not have been surprised to see he try to force her way back to the battle with her last breath—which she would, no doubt, use in some sort of curse.

Collapsing rather less gracefully than usual, Merilgais dropped to the stool that had been left at his bedside. She waited until the disgruntled Healer fled under her baleful glare, then turned to face him. That was when his heart truly sank into despair.

Merilgais had a thick bandage wrapped around her mid-section and it was stained with fresh blood from a wound that had clearly not yet stopped seeping fluid. There was a fresh cut across her face, although it was little more than a scratch and had been daubed with a slimy but medicinal ointment more out of fear of poisoned _yrch_ blades than because it needed it. There was another thick bandage on her upper arm—if she had been anyone other than Merilgais, she might have felt exposed with her tunic so torn and tattered, but such things were of little import to a warrior of her ilk—and yet another on her thigh, although neither of those showed recent blood. Her hands, of course, were wrapped in bandages, but the only difference there was that these were fresh and clean; Merilgais had not yet realized that when bare knuckles connect with solid metal armor, the knuckles usually loose. Of course, in her case, they often won, but it meant her hands generally came away from battle even more battered and bloodied than the rest of her.

But it wasn't the wounds that distressed Aglarmegil. Nor were they what bothered the Elf-maid, save for visible annoyance at being so inconvenienced by them. Rather it was the look on her face that sent his spirits sinking. Even in battle, the irrepressible Elf-maid usually bore evidence of some sort of twisted and bitter grin. She was a cheerful soul, albeit in a most unusually rough and boisterous manner.

Now there was bitter, brittle sorrow on a face unnaturally pale beneath streaks of blood and grime. And her eyes…even at their grimmest, there was always a spark of life in Merilgais's eyes. But now they were two pools of endlessly deep sorrow. He could have pitched off the cot into those pits of cold, frozen grey mourning, and never come out the other end.

He found, suddenly, that he could not breathe. "What…what has happened?" he whispered.

"Amdír," she replied, her voice low and rough. "Amdír is slain, and his forces with him."

"No!"

Merilgais nodded, her face a grim mask. "We have driven the Shadow back," she said in a voice that was the haunted echo of heartiness. "It was a victory." Her face twisted as she spoke, and broke into a thousand shards of painful sorrow. "But _Aran _Amdír was lost in the marshes, and the forces of Lórinand with him."

Aglarmegil stared, wide-eyes with shock and horror. "_All _of them?"

"Nearly," Merilgais whispered. For the first time, Aglarmegil became aware of the difference in the Healing Tent; it was more crowded than usual, and the Healers more frantic. There were also less of them; many had clearly gone straight to the field, seeing to the wounded where they lay despite the threat of the Enemy. Things must have been bad, then, for Gil-galad to allow the Healers that close to the fighting. Knowing how desperately their talents were needed, the Noldor's High King was loathe to risk them in combat. It was one of the few areas of strategy that their lord Oropher agreed with the other king on wholeheartedly.

Aglarmegil shuddered. "But…but how is that possible?" He didn't expect an answer, but Merilgais offered one anyway.

"They were cut off," she said, and her voice was bitter. "They were driven into the marshes, thrust away from our lines, and…by the time we could turn the battle and sweep down to their aide, more than half the Lórinand forces were slaughtered."

Aglarmegil found himself squeezing her hand, and did not know who had first reached for the other, or when. "Merilgais…" he whispered.

She shook her head, and dashed a hand across her eyes, leaving a smear of filth across her face. "But we drove them back. We overwhelmed them, and forced them back, and Sauron's army is in retreat."

"Then…" Aglarmegil could barely form the words, the very idea was so foreign. "Then, the war could be…over, soon?"

Merilgais shrugged jerkily, and managed a grim smile. "_Aralor_ wants to charge the filth and wipe them off the face of Aman. I just hope it takes him long enough to convince our cautious allies that I can be back on the field to help, and guard Thranduil."

Aglarmegil nodded firmly, and his eyes were dark with cold promise. "Let us hope," he said.

Merilgais sighed, and scratched at the bandage on her arm, glaring as if it offered her great insult. "These Healers," she asked, "how closely do they watch their charges?"

Aglarmegil smiled without humor. "I would nut suggest trying to make a break for it, my friend. In your present state, you are lucky to have made it this far."

Her fair albeit bloodstained face creased into a frown. "Thranduil needs me," she muttered. "He needs us _both_ out there, not languishing in here with these…these herb-gatherers."

A frazzled Healer sent the warrior maiden an affronted glare, but she was in too much of a hurry to stop and exchange words. The two Greenwood soldiers ignored her.

"How is he?" Aglarmegil asked softly.

Merilgais shrugged, her face softening for a moment. "Distraught, of course," she replied, looking away. "He and _Aralor _are angered by the fate of the Lórinand, and are displeased with the lack of immediate response to this outrage by the Enemy."

"What do you mean?"

She shrugged again. "Apparently the Noldor and Edain do not have the stomach for a full-assault, and would rather let the Enemy sit behind his gates and simmer for a time. Thranduil and our _Aralor _are of course going to argue their point; I would not be surprised if they are in conference now."

"Which would explain why _Ernil _Thranduil has not yet come to ascertain that you are not greviously hurt," the other Elf said slyly.

Merilgais looked away. If her cheeks were tinged with pink, it was too difficult to tell beneath the grime. "_Ernil _Thranduil has more important things to do than worry about the light wounds of one of his warriors," she replied tartly. Then her eyes narrowed above a smile. "As, no doubt, does my sister…or has she come to visit you already this day?"

It was Aglarmegil's turn not to meet his companion's eyes. "_Gon_ Angmeril, I am certain, is far too busy to worry about one of her soldiers languishing indefinitely in the Healing Tents. But she shall, no doubt, soon be in to see to her sister's state."

Merilgais raised an eyebrow. "Well, one must hope, then, that she shall be able to snatch a few moments to speak with her languishing warrior after she has seen to her sister."

"If time should allow, perhaps," Aglarmegil replied smoothly. They shared a soft, bittersweet smile.

The two Greenwood warriors sat in silence for a moment. Then Aglarmegil asked, "how was it you were hurt?"

Merilgais's serious mien flashed suddenly into a grin. "I wanted a glaive."

"Those sword-spears some of the Enemy Men fight with?" the other Elf asked in confusion.

The warrior-maid nodded an affirmation and her grin widened. "So I took one."

Aglarmegil blinked. "When you say 'took one,' you do not mean that you simply picked up a discarded one from the field, do you?"

She raised an eyebrow but her smile never wavered. "And risk taking a broken one?"

Aglarmegil groaned.

* * *


	34. Cold Winds Blow

_As per usual, I apologize for the lengthy time between updates. The only excuse I have is that Real Life sucks, and there's nothing I can do about that. Sorry, and I really most sincerely appreciate you all continuing to read despite the long delays. Thank you!  
_

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Four: Cold Winds Blow**

It somehow felt colder on the Pass of Caradhras than it had before, despite the comparative lack of snow. Legolas tried not to shiver, but he was bundled in his cloak. If Fuiniel felt the chill, she gave no sign; the small, dark elleth sat so upright it made Elrohir's back hurt just looking at her, and her sharp grey eyes never rested as they suspiciously scanned the mountain. Her fingers were curled so tightly on the hilt of her long white knife that her knuckles shone like bone, and her horse kept shifting uneasily beneath his tense rider.

Elrohir didn't know if he was sensing something uncomfortable about the mountain, or if he was simply jumpy from watching Fuiniel. Shaking his head, he turned back around to face forward, determined not to look at the elleth again until they were off this disconcerting pass. The horses, at least, did not seem bothered by it; they were enjoying the much easier road, despite the steep climb, because of how little snow lay across the narrow pass.

A narrow pass that Elrohir could not _wait _to be off of. There was an unnatural silence hung over Caradhras, and it made him almost as jumpy as fidgety Fuiniel. Desperate for something to break the silence, Elrohir started humming. Fuiniel hissed at him; he turned around to glare at her, but she glared back even more fiercely and, muttering under his breath, the young Elf Lord swung back around to face forward again. He didn't need to see Elladan's face to know that his twin was silently laughing at him.

Elrohir debated the merits of leaning to the side and scooping up a handful of snow with which to pelt his brother, but decided against it based on the high odds that such frivolity would have angered the twitchy young Elf maid behind him. _Angered _was probably too weak of a word.

Elrohir sighed, and wished there was something around to distract him, but not a single creature was in sight. He would have even been glad to see an orc come barreling towards them out of the glistening snow, but all was still and silent and _disturbing_. The world shouldn't be this quiet, this motionless. Elrohir's senses told him that nothing was wrong, but every instinct was thrumming with anxiety; clearly, _something _was, for everything to be this unnaturally calm.

It was the mountain.

Shuddering, Elrohir cast his mind about for another topic of thought—any other topic. Cruel Redhorn was too intimidating to dwell on, not while he was walking upon it as well. _Glorfindel was right. _

And if _that _wasn't a terrifying thought, Elrohir didn't know what was.

Well, actually, he did. The young Elf Lord resisted the urge to glance back at Legolas. _Losing your mother_… He thought of Celebrían and a bit of the chill dissipated. Mother was going to be _furious, _of course, whenever they finally got back to Imladris, and father just as much, but still, Elrohir was looking forward to seeing the both of them again, especially mother. Ever since he'd learned what little he knew of what had befallen Legolas's mother, Elrohir had found his thoughts dwelling more and more often upon his own, and how fortunate he was to have her.

"What do you suppose our little prince's mother was like?" Elrohir mused aloud. He spoke in Westron: a tongue of Men in which he and his brother were fluent, from their time with the Dúnedain, but not one that the two elflings riding behind him would be familiar with. He ignored Fuiniel's disapproving sniff; he'd had enough of silence, it was time to speak or he would be forced to scream. The young elleth could just consider herself lucky that he was only entangling his twin in the discussion; he could have spoken Sindarin—about another, less painful subject, obviously—and dragged her and Legolas into it as well.

Elladan shot him a shocked look—how could his twin speak so casually about such a dark subject?—but the elder of the two was merely affecting his surprise; he knew his brother too well for it to be genuine.

Erestor blamed Glorfindel wholly for the Twins' lack of reverence on sensitive subjects, but in truth the Balrog-slayer was—in this case, at least—likely blameless. Glorfindel was irrepressibly, irreverently cheery and optimistic, yes, but the Gondolin Elf likely had a better grasp of appropriate solemnity—if such a word could be applied to the optimistic Elf—when it came to subjects of tragedy and loss than Elrond's advisor would ever gain, Eru willing.

In this case, the Twins' behavior was solely upon their own shoulders. When one nearly shares one's innermost thoughts through instinct rather than speech with another, there is no room or reason for propriety of any sort between their thoughts.

Knowing one another's mind so well as they did, Elladan and Elrohir had long ago dispensed with simple pleasantries or politeness in their private conversations. Such qualifiers were more often affected for the sake of joviality than respect…and even the tragic case of Thranduil's queen was no exception, dark and foreboding 'though they found the subject.

"She must bear much in common with our own dear Celebrían," Elladan replied at last.

Elrohir cocked his head. "How so?"

"The little prince," Elladan avoided using Legolas's name, for that would have alerted the two elflings with them that he was the subject under discussion, and it was rude to talk about people behind their backs or more accurately in front of them in a language they did not speak, at least when those people knew you were talking—what they didn't know, after all, could not hurt or offend them, or so at least the twins had always figured. "The way he reacted so suddenly to nana? Surely it was because she so resembled his own."

"Ah," Elrohir nodded seriously. "That makes much sense, brother…surprisingly."

"I agree it is surprising you should recognize sense," Elladan began, but his brother ignored the invitation to walk down familiar paths of banter in favor of discussing this new topic.

"A kind, gentle, clever elleth, who always has the solution to your problem…"

Elladan smiled, thinking of his mother, and using her as the template upon which to build his mental picture of Legolas's lost naneth. "Ay, with hair light as silver, long and lovely. Soft of voice and touch, a soothing presence better than any herb-brew even father could come up with."

"With eyes warm and comforting, even when she is cross with you." Elrohir's own eyes seemed haunted; he had not realized how much he missed his mother until they started speaking of her. Or, more specifically, speaking of Legolas's mystery-mother, who in the twins' minds bore great resemblance to their own. Celebrían was, after all, their idea of the perfect mother; who better to model the unknown Elf-woman after?

"Poor little prince," Elladan said softly. "To lose something like that, and then have it thrown back in your face when you are bleary and nearly delirious with pain and toil…"

Elrohir resisted the urge to turn back around and bestow a comforting smile on Legolas, because Fuiniel rode between his horse and the young prince, and her baleful glare would not have helped his spirits lift at all. "Poor thing," he agreed. Then he leaned over, grabbed a handful of snow, and threw it at his brother.

... ... ...

Aglarmegil limped out of the Healing Tent and blinked, surprised to see Engwalyg and Merilgais standing before him. They bore identical broad grins. Engwalyg clasped him into a hug, releasing him only to allow Merilgais to do the same. They were both fully armored, so the embraces were somewhat rougher than Aglarmegil had been expecting, and he staggered.

The injured Elf blinked at them. "What are you doing here?" he gaped.

"We heard word that the stuffy Healers were finally going to release you," Merilgais grinned. "We thought your comrades ought to come and welcome you back to the land of the ambulatory."

"Should you not be at the front with our lord?" Aglarmegil asked, looking around as if half-expecting Thranduil and Angmeril to materialize as well.

Engwalyg shook his head. "We shall join them shortly, the battle is not yet about to be joined. There was time enough to seek you out, first."

None of them said that they might be seeing one another for the last time, just as none of them had ventured comment on the fact that the only reason the still convalescing Aglarmegil had been discharged was because the Healers expected to need all their beds for the freshly injured that were soon to make their way into their desperate care.

Merilgais rapped gently on the thick bandages that still wrapped Aglarmegil. "I see they are not letting you back on the field yet, though."

He shook his head mournfully. "I was told that if I did not swear to abide by their orders and keep myself away from the battle until _they _decided I was healed enough to fight once more, they would chain me to their tent poles."

"Cheer up," Engwalyg counseled his friend. "I am sure you can still be useful. While you are waiting, you can clean our gear for us."

"Maybe cook a nice, hot meal."

"And when we get back, you could wash our boots."

"Perhaps a nice foot massage."

Aglarmegil rolled his eyes, and turned to Merilgais. "I cannot believe that they said you are all ready fit to fight once more."

Merilgais shrugged, and her grin turned sly. "Let them try and stop me." She fingered the strange Enemy weapon that she had been injured while confiscating—a _glaive_, it was called—and gave it a small experimental twirl.

Engwalyg shook his head in exasperation. "_I_ cannot believe you are insisting on bringing that _thing _to the battle. You have barely even swung it around in practice, and you think you can _fight _with it? You are going to get yourself hurt—_again_."

"What is to know?" Merilgais shrugged again. "You swing it and hit things, and then those thing bleed. It is like a sword on a stick."

"I think that it is probably a bit more complicated than that," Engwalyg said doubtfully, but he mostly muttered to himself; there was no arguing with Merilgais, especially when she had found herself a new toy to smack the enemy with.

Aglarmegil smiled wistfully. "I wish that I could be out there with you," he said softly.

"We wish the same," Englawyg replied and grasped his friend's shoulder.

"Ay," said Merilgais, "without you around to calm her down, my sister has been driving us all to distraction with her fretting over _Ernil _Thranduil's safety." She grinned, and elbowed the grim-faced Elf standing next to her. "Engwalyg here does not have the gift you do at soothing uptight _gons_."

Engwalyg rolled his eyes. "And unless we wish said _gon _to flay us both with a tongue-lashing, we had best hurry and join her. Angmeril's nerves will not be thankful for our tardiness, even with Tiraran there to complain to."

"Tiraran?" Aglarmegil asked, confused.

"Ah, yes." Merilgais waved a hand in the vague direction of Greenwood's tents. "Our _aralor _assigned his _gon _to Thranduil's company when their nobleness-es decided to split our forces." Her fair face twisted into a look of disgruntled disgust.

"Split our forces?" Aglarmegil yelped in surprise.

"Of course," Engwalyg said almost to himself, "you would not have heard."

The two armored warriors exchanged a glance.

"The High-and-mighty-King decided that since Greenwood's archers are the best in the army," —even her distaste of Gil-galad's orders could not disguise Merilgais's pride in her fellows— "then it is only _sensible _to split that force into two sections on the outer flank of the army, so that we may catch the Enemy beneath overlapping fields of precision fire."

Aglarmegil frowned. "But…"

"Oh, yes," Engwalyg nodded. "Both Oropher and Thranduil protested _vehemently_, but they were unanimously outvoted. _Aralor _has the greater portion with him on the right flank, closer to the Gates, while our prince has the remaining third on the opposite side of the field with him."

"That is…disquieting."

The other two nodded. "Ay," Engwalyg said quietly, "Very much so. It might be a very sound strategy, _if_…"

Aglarmegil nodded. "Ay, _if_," he agreed, and sighed. "_If _we were a larger force, with numbers that would support two sections of archery fire. _If _we were the sort of rigidly disciplined force of ranks and companies like the Men and Noldor have, rather than a band of warriors who follow our leaders as one unit. _If _we were bowmen alone, rather than melee fighters who are also very good archers. As it is…"

Merilgais snorted. "As it _is_," she said sourly, "Gil-galad split us up because he fears that _Aralor _will not follow orders, and will try and force the army into a more sensible charge."

Engwalyg shook his head. "As if our king would be so foolish as to attempt to reshape a battle plan against his allies' will in the midst of the battle itself…"

Merilgais's eyes were dark. "I do not know," she said slowly.

Both Elves turned to stare at her. "What?" Aglarmegil asked in surprise.

She waved a hand. "Oh, under normal circumstances, of course _Aralor _would never do something like that…but if he takes _insult_…"

"Well of course he shall take insult," Engwalyg said impatiently. "That is what this _is_, an insult."

Merilgais shrugged. "Well, all I know is that Oropher is remarkably stubborn," she said with proud affection, "so if Gil-galad pushes him too far…" She trailed off, and the three Elves looked at one another.

"In that case," Engwalyg at last said slowly, "we shall simply have to be especially on our guard, and keep our eyes very wide open indeed."

Merilgais nodded, and Aglarmegil sighed. "I wish even more now that you would be out there with us," she told the wounded Elf. "I think that we should need you today."

"I am sorry to disappoint," Aglarmegil whispered.

Engwalyg and Merilgais rolled their eyes in unison. "Nonsense!" the taller of the two snapped at his friend, "you have no choice!"

"Ay," Merilgais agreed, "you cannot disappoint us because you are too injured to fight; you are lucky to be walking, or even breathing!"

"Merilgais, I fear our friend is as much of a fool as you." Engwalyg grinned.

"I hope he takes that as the compliment it is," she replied swiftly, her own smile dangerously sweet. "At the least, it is far better than being a fool like _you_."

Aglarmegil grinned, although it was a bitter one. "You shall _both _be fools if you stand around here talking much longer when Angmeril is waiting on you. Go on…and watch yourselves."

Both warriors shook their heads. "Nay," Engwalyg spoke for both of them, "we watch _Thranduil_." He smiled. "But I thank you for your concern, my friend."

Merilgais nodded her agreement, flashed a smile, and twirled her captured glaive onto her shoulder. Then the two armored warriors waved farewell and hurried off through the chaos of a war camp about to go in to battle.

Aglarmegil nodded and watched the two retreating forms with haunted eyes until they were lost amidst the crowd. "May the Valar watch you and our prince both, my friends," he said softly, "since I cannot be there to do so for them." He sighed, and limped away to endure the hardest battle a warrior could face: _waiting._

... ... ...

_Aralor _was the cry that rang out in Greenwood, like a high, strong song, winding through the icy trees and snaking around snow-dusted ground and brittle leaves. _Aralor_, the forest sang, and the sound of brutal, rage-driven pain beat like a dark, harsh counter-point to the melody of hope renewed. The sharp clatter of metal cut through the forest's song, an endless clash of blade on armor on shield on flesh, and the music of war throbbed through Greenwood's frozen trees.

Merilgais grinned with all the delight of a mortal berserker. Here amid the wintry forest, in the tumult of battle, she was truly in her element. She knew it was not a fitting thing for an Elf to take such joy in, but _fitting _had never been able to affect reality any more than it could affect the oaken-haired Elf-maid of the steely grin. She swung wide and took two _yrch _off their feet from behind; they fell, howling and clutching their bloody stumps, and she twirled her spear-tipped pole to deliver two sharp killing blows. Ladinion rose to his feet and gave her a shaky smile.

"Try and shoot them before they get so close next time, lad," she advised the young warrior with a wink. "By the time you're close enough to smell their putrid breath in your face, it is time to grasp a melee weapon and dispatch them up close."

Ladinion nodded, face pale under the streak of black blood. "Hannon-le," he gasped, massaging the deep gash in his shoulder.

"Go and get that looked at," she told him with a frown. The young Elf opened his mouth to protest, but Merilgais frowned harder. "The _yrch _like to poison their blades, little one. Even a scratch can be fatal. Now _shoo._"

Gulping, Ladinion went. Merilgais grinned, and made a note to tell Tiraran that he needed to drum a bit more common sense into the new recruits along with their basic fighting skills. She didn't smell any poison on the weapons of the _yrch _she had just slain, but one should never be too careful—at least if one was a new recruit, who had only a few decades of service under one's belt.

Merilgais ignored the shallow gashes on her arms with the carelessness of a veteran. At this point, if she could not recognize the feel of _yrch _venom in her veins, she did not deserve to survive a poisoned strike anyway. Steely grin flashing as sharp as the long weapon in her hands, Merilgais launched herself into the thickest part of the fray she could spot and laid about her on all sides with her modified glaive. She had developed a fondness for longer reach than swords could provide years ago, and her tastes had not changed since Sauron's fall.

Much else had, both within Greenwood and throughout the rest of Arda, but never Merilgais. She was older, perhaps, and more tempered by sadness, but when you temper steel, you only make it cut all the sharper.

And Merilgais's blade was sharp indeed.

The tide of battle swept around the fearsome Elf-maid, and she found herself fighting next to the _gon. _Merilgais glanced around, and spotted the brittle-gold form of Thranduil nearby, but not as close to his _gon _as the king ought to have been. She raised an eyebrow at Tiraran in question.

"Our lord is well protected," he assured her, nodding to the veteran warriors near the king. "I would rather be able to keep watch _over _him than simply be one more sword watching his back, the mood our _aralor _is in today."

Merilgais's smile was cold and deadly. "It is a good mood."

Tiraran's own face bore nothing but grief. "But from grievous deeds was it borne," he said sadly.

"You think I do not know this?" the warrior maiden snapped. "You think _I _am unaware of this tragedy?"

The _gon _grimaced, and stepped back instinctively from the force of her anger. "No," he replied softly, his blade slicing up and down again and leaving a spray of black blood where it had been. "No, I know full-well your sorrow, Merilgais, and all of Greenwood weeps for you."

Merilgais hunched her shoulders as if under a blow, although the _orch _nearest her was in no shape to deliver one. "It is not _me _for whom they weep, or _ought_ to weep," she answered sharply. "But bitter vengeance is a better response to overwhelming grief than letting your will seep away into the ether." There was sympathy in Merilgais's steely grey eyes as she glanced at her king, but none of it reached her sharp voice. "He should know that by now," she added, and her tone softened with sorrow.

Tiraran's eyes softened as well. "You ought to come to the palace," he said gently. "It would do you as much good as our lord."

She shot a glare like an arrow. "My presence would do neither of us good," she said coldly. "Shared grief is not diminished, but rather doubled by each who feels the same sorrows."

"I think it does not work that way," Tiraran began as kindly as he could, but was interrupted when a blur of steel flashed a few inches in front of his face.

Merilgais swung wide with her glaive, but the decapitated _orch _that crumpled to the forest floor seemed more an afterthought than anything else. She signaled with the weapon, as if it were an over-sized pointer, and Tiraran turned, fighting on autopilot, to see what the warrior-maid indicated. "There!" she hissed, dropping her voice to a loud whisper. "You see that?" Merilgais snorted. "There are _yrch_ in the _trees_."

Tiraran shook his head in disbelief at such foolish strategy; trees were a natural element to the Elves, who could run as fleet-footed over frail branches as on solid ground. The _yrch _had no such ability, and clambered along the frozen limbs awkwardly, no more at home there than they would have been trying to dance an intricate waltz at a feast. "We shall roust them out of _there _easily enough."

A shake of the head and a steely grin protested. "Nay," Merilgais smiled, "let them crawl through the trees. They can do little harm up there, and certainly cannot descend upon us with stealth. Let them split their force, and we shall watch and swarm when they have spent their energy getting into whatever position they think to take up there."

Tiraran pondered her words for a moment, his blade swinging and slicing almost of its own accord, and then nodded. "A well-thought strategy," he said at last, then grinned. "When are you going to allow me to appoint you _gon _of your own company?"

Merilgais snorted. "I am no more suited for command than I am for court, Tiraran, and you know it. This infatuation of yours with propriety is almost Noldorian."

Tiraran gasped, and Merilgais laughed at him while she skewed an _orch _on the end of her glaive. She flicked the weapon, shaking the black guts off, and spun around to sever the arm of another _orch _that thought to take the Elf-maid unawares with an axe strike at her back.

"I do not mean that," she assured the _gon_. "But if you continue trying to hand me leadership which I do not deserve based solely on my familial relationships, I shall have to change my mind."

Tiraran scowled, affronted. "Simply because you prefer _challenging _orders to _giving _them does not mean you would not give them well," he insisted.

Merilgais shrugged. "But I challenge them so artistically," she pointed out.

Tiraran rolled his eyes and returned his attention to Thranduil. "If that is what you wish to describe it as," he muttered. The Elf-maid laughed again, a high, sharp sound that cut through the tumult of battle like the long spear-stick she swung with seeming reckless abandon. Merilgais buried her sorrows deep beneath a determined joy of battle, reveling in the conflict so she would not have to feel the one within.

Tiraran only hoped that his _aralor _could do the same, but feared that Thranduil had managed to summon only enough energy for one last, bittersweet glory. He was overjoyed to see his king standing proud and tall on the battlefield once more, but the _gon _could not shut out the cold voice that whispered in his mind that Thranduil was standing only long enough to fall. And so Tiraran watched, his sharp eyes fastened to the frail form of his beloved king, ready to throw all he had between his lord and the doom he feared Thranduil sought.

He had failed once, had lost one lord of golden glory to dark shadows; he would _not _fail the other.

... ... ...

Oropher was fuming. Gil-galad had just split his forces, ostensibly to spread out archery fire for the Greenwood troops were among their most accomplished bowmen, and the High King had decided that concentrating their best shots in two groups at opposite ends of their center lines would provide a greater coverage of fire. This was a sound enough strategy, but it had Oropher incensed for one reason. He would head the larger group while his son was in charge of the smaller. This meant that Thranduil would not be at his side should he, say, for some reason decide to charge the enemy.

_So, the Noldorian exile does not trust me,_ Oropher silently steamed, his eyes flashing in a manner dangerously similar to clouds just before the lightning starts. While Greenwood's king was indeed stubborn, he had been overruled by the other members of this Last Alliance. And Oropher was leader enough to know when he had no choice but to acquiesce. He was not such a fool as to think that forcing his allies to follow a plan they had decided against was a smart move. While he thought his idea bore a much greater impact, he knew that abruptly changing an army's plan as a battle began was not a good idea, especially when the other leaders of the army spoke against said plan.

But the so-called "High King" had decided to ensure—no, to _force_—Oropher to follow the plan the others had agreed upon. By separating king and prince, Gil-galad saw to it that Oropher's chief commander would be unable to accompany him in any action he chose to undertake, at least not until half the army had chosen to follow along. The Noldor thought to manipulate Oropher into cooperation that he already knew he had no choice but to give.

Well. He would show the little upstart a thing or two.

So Gil-galad thought he could force _him_ into abiding by his wishes, did he? Oropher smiled grimly, fingers caressing the pommel of his sword. Around him, Greenwood's soldiers exchanged glances and tight-lipped smiles of their own. They knew that this expression on their king's face meant trouble for someone; in this case, they assumed it would be shared between the forces of the Enemy and the leaders of their own erstwhile allies, but focusing specifically upon the High King who had so dared to insult their liege. The Elves readied their own weapons, watching their lord closely.

Oropher's face hardened. Gil-galad needed to learn that Greenwood would not be ordered around by anyone, least of all the kin of kinslayers. He would tell the High King just that after the battle, but for now, better to illustrate the point most visibly. He exchanged a farewell nod with his son who, indignation likewise apparent on his face, led his soldiers to their posts with taunt dignity. Gil-galad's insult was very clear, but Oropher knew his prince would never lower himself to acknowledge it. He couldn't have asked for a better ally in his son…which Gil-galad knew very well.

What the Noldor _didn't _know, apparently, was why it was a bad thing to insult Greenwood and its king. Stubborn pride flared to life in Oropher's stormy eyes and he closed his fist around his sword. His warriors likewise readied themselves, all but the back ranks eschewing their bows for melee weapons. Gil-galad thought he would have well-behaved little archers. Oropher would surprise both theenemy _and _his haughty ally. The king tossed a golden braid over his shoulder, wondering idly who would be the first to recover. Hated although they were, he was almost willing to bet on the _yrch_. After all, they were _used_ to being caught off guard by the superior Elves. He imagined it would be a new experience to the snobbish Noldor.

So be it. Greenwood's king and troops waited tensely. Any moment now, the enemy would come into view…and they would charge. Let them see Gil-galad try and manipulate him after _this. _He would expect the High King's apology on the field of his victory. Oropher smiled coldly and drew his sword…

... ... ...

_Nature's first green is gold,_  
_Her hardest hue to hold._  
_Her early leaf's a flower;_  
_But only so an hour._  
_Then leaf subsides to leaf._  
_So Eden sank to grief,_  
_So dawn goes down to day._  
_Nothing gold can stay_

—_A Poem by Robert Frost_


	35. Nothing Gold

_This chapter is dedicated to Aranna Undomiel, who knows me far too well..._

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Five: Nothing Gold**

Gil-galad watched in disbelief as the larger half of Greenwood's troops broke away in a charge. "The damned _fool_," he muttered fiercely at the golden head at the attack's front. "Curse him!" He turned to snap orders to his army, which was staring after Oropher's troops in confusion. Círdan, face still pale from recent wounds but eyes blazing with fire, was visible even a distance away and Gil-galad was relieved to see that the other Elf Lord showed no sign of letting his own forces follow the mad attack. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Elrond disappearing into the crowd. _Good. _Someone needed to see that Greenwood's prince was stopped from following his thrice-cursed father's stubborn example.

"You should follow him, my lord," came a quiet voice that cut expertly through the din of orders and army.

Gil-galad turned to the side and then looked down to see the too-young figure of Glorfindel staring after Oropher and Greenwood with unreadable eyes.

The High King frowned. "I will not risk the entire army for one stubborn Elf's foolish pride," he snapped. The twice-born Balrog-slayer made Gil-galad uncomfortable. He was far too young to be so old and to see such age staring out of the eyes of one who was little more than a child sat ill with the Noldor. He wondered once again if he should have handed command of the army over to the twice-born, but no matter the age of the Gondolin Elf's _fëa _his form was that of a child. Even if the warriors would have followed him, it would have been uncomfortable. And twice-born Balrog-slayer of fallen Gondolin or not, Gil-galad would be doomed to the Void before he risked a child like that. Bad enough the not-elfling was riding as a commander, making him responsible for the whole Alliance would have been too much for a child to bear. Even if he was unnaturally wise for a child.

"They will not turn back," Glorfindel murmured.

"Of course they will," Gil-galad replied in surprise. "When they see that even Thranduil makes no move to follow them they shall have to hold and withdraw back to the cover of our lines."

Glorfindel shook his head. "Oropher will never retreat, and neither will his warriors. If we do not follow them, they will be slaughtered."

"I am not going to move the entire army to the rescue of one idiotic Elf," the other snapped harshly. "He knows what he is doing very well and I shall not give in to this blatant rebellion against the command of our Alliance."

"Then let me take a company and join them. I can convince Oropher to turn back with me, and we can say that I did so without your knowledge and then neither of you have to lose face in front of the other."

Gil-galad frowned. "I will not risk so much as one soldier on a king whose head is too swollen with pride and ego to obey the very orders he agreed to," the High King said sharply. "And once Oropher realizes this, he will have to order his forces to retreat and we will move to cover them. Now, I will have no more discussion of this disgusting revolt. My orders are _final._" Fuming, he turned back to the front to wait for Greenwood to falter and return.

"Let us hope you are right, my lord," the Balrog-slayer sighed quietly but his deep eyes were sorrowful.

Elrond forced his way through the Elven warriors, shoving aside any who did not move fast enough. He hardly even saw them as he flew through the ranks. He had to reach Thranduil and he knew he had only moments to do so before the Greenwood prince took action. Never mind that a good portion of Gil-galad's force separated Thranduil's warriors from the charge that Oropher had just made, Elrond was certain that as soon as the prince realized Gil-galad was not going to order his soldiers to follow Greenwood's advance—and Elrond had not needed to wait to hear his lord's voice to know _that _was not going to happen—as soon as he realized this, Thranduil was going to charge with his forces straight across the battlefield, consequences and plans be damned.

The _peredhel _gritted his teeth while he sent silent curses upon the haughty prince. He belonged at Gil-galad's side. With the battle starting, the High King would need his herald to pass orders and keep things organized between their commanders and allies. But someone had to keep stubborn Thranduil from following his fool of a father.

But then there was Thranduil coming towards him, pushing his way through the army with more success than Elrond had found. The Elven warriors that had stood between Gil-galad and Greenwood fell back at the sight of the furious prince. Elrond interposed himself in the other's path, but Thranduil bestowed upon him only a glare that could split stone before shoving past the _peredhel_. The gaping herald had a brief glimpse of sparking eyes and flowing gold before Thranduil had passed him by. Elrond turned in time to catch the prince's arm, but Thranduil refused to halt. He could not shake the _peredhel _off, so he simply dragged him along in the path of his wrath.

"What are you doing?" Thranduil snapped without so much as a preliminary as soon as the furious Elf reached Gil-galad's side. The High King looked sternly at the prince, his steely grey eyes unmovable.

"I am following our agreed upon plan," he said firmly, daring the other to argue.

Thranduil did. For all that the prince was flanked by only two guards—and one of them a maiden—he lifted his head as if he had an entire army at his heels and intended to stare the High King down into forced compliance. Gil-galad raised his own chin, refusing to be cowed by this impetuous child.

"You must give the command to follow them," Thranduil insisted.

Gil-galad's eyes flashed coldly. "The army will move to cover them as soon as they begin their retreat," he smoothly informed the prince.

Thranduil's gaze sharpened like a Silvan arrow. "Soldiers of Greenwood will not retreat in front of the Enemy," he snarled proudly.

"They _will _retreat, because I will _not _order the army to follow the stubborn conceit of a self-important fool to destruction," the High King retorted sharply.

"You must," Thranduil insisted, his careful calm reflecting the first hints of dismay. "Else they shall be destroyed!"

Gil-galad said nothing, just turned away to watch as Elves and orcs neared one another on the battlefield.

Thranduil gritted his teeth, forcing his words out almost against his will. "I admit that my father should not have acted so, but you know well that your arrogance pushed him to this! Sitting back and waiting for those warriors to be destroyed is not an option you can entertain, whatever your feud with Greenwood's king."

"All they have to do is retreat," Gil-galad said mildly. "We shall not let them perish, but neither shall I risk the fate of this war to assuage Oropher's wounded pride. If the entire army goes chasing after your father, we could all be destroyed, and I cannot put that many lives in jeopardy for one fool's mad insubordination." He turned away, signaling for archers to prepare to lay down covering fire for Greenwood's imminent return to their lines.

"But they will not retreat!" Thranduil exclaimed. Gil-galad snorted in disbelief but said nothing more. Thranduil exchanged now-frantic glances with his two warriors, then looked out to the battle. Sharp Elvish eyes had no difficulty picking out the shining golden figure leading their warriors, and for a moment Oropher turned back and his eyes met his son's gaze. He saw the stationary army and the distress on Thranduil's face. He saw Gil-galad waiting for him to retreat. He smiled thinly at his prince, then gave a shout and turned back to face the Enemy.

"Nooo!" Thranduil lunged forward but Elrond caught him and dragged him back. The _peredhel _knew not what the prince intended to do—attack Gil-galad? Run the length of the battlefield alone to his father's aide?—and he would not have been surprised to learn that even Thranduil did not know what action he would have taken had be not been restrained.

The prince struggled fiercely and Elrond would have lost his grip on the furious warrior had Círdan not suddenly appeared at his side to help hold him. The shipwright said something in a voice that was sad and soothing, but Elrond could not hear him over Thranduil's shouts. The other two warriors of Greenwood were shouting as well, and Elrond felt one of them try and haul him off their prince. Then there was Glorfindel barking orders and grabbing arms and a press of anxious bodies trying to hold them all. Gil-galad said nothing, eyes fixed on the conflict ahead.

"Release me!" Thranduil ordered angrily, his resistance became more and more frantic so that Elrond was hard-pressed to maintain his grip on the furious Elf. "You cannot just let them die!" he yelled at the High King's unmoving form. Elrond desperately ached to look at the battle that was consuming Thranduil's tortured gaze, but he dared not turn to see for fear of losing hold of the Greenwood prince. "You condemn them to death and their blood shall be as much on your hands as upon the Enemy!" he shouted to the unresponsive commander. Tears of mingled rage and grief streamed unheeded down Thranduil's fair face and Elrond slowly realized that he too wept.

"How dare you!" the prince spat harshly but the High King made no answer. The sounds of battle were impossible to hear over the cries and shouts around them, but Elrond needed nothing but the wild look of pain in Orophorion's eyes to know how the attack was faring. The prince gave one last lunge, his hands fumbling for his sword, but he could not throw off his captors.

"Kinslayer!" Thranduil screamed raw-voiced in rage and the Noldor stiffened. Still Gil-galad did not move and the prince collapsed weeping against their encircling arms.

"Get him out of here," Glorfindel hissed in Elrond's ear and suddenly the _peredhel _found himself dragging the weakly struggling warrior from the field. He was all but incoherent now yet the cry of _kinslayer _stillechoed hauntingly across the field.

...

The clear, cold day shattered as abruptly as if it had been a mirror tumbling onto solid rock. The sky, empty and blue and pale, hardly flickered before dark grey clouds overwhelmed it from nowhere, and a dizzying avalanche of swirling white crystals descended upon the narrow Pass of Caradhras. It was an impossible shift in the weather, faster than could be believed, and it caught the four young Elves and their horses utterly off-guard.

Elladan loudly spat a word he had learned from the Dúnedain and bent low over his mount's neck, trying to wipe his eyes clear of the deluge of opaque white dust. It lashed at the travelers like sharp grains of glass, and they squinted desperately but even Elven eyes could barely make out the edge where the Pass dropped off into thin air.

"We have to stop!" Elrohir shouted, spitting snow from his mouth.

"We should push on!" Fuiniel argued, her voice sharp and thin as it struggled to be heard through the wind. Elladan couldn't even see the two younger elflings through the swirl of white; hard enough to make out the dim shape of Elrohir riding right behind him.

"It is too dangerous!" he called back, shaking his head even though he knew she wouldn't be able to see it.

"If we wait, we could be snowed in here!" she persisted.

"And if we press on," Elladan began, then choked on snow that had taken advantage of his turning to face into the wind. .

"We risk tumbling off the mountain in our snow-blind state!" the younger of the twins finished the sentence where his brother left off.

A fainter, high voice was all but swept away by Caradhras's rage as Legolas asked, "what about the _yrch_?"

Elladan spat snow from his mouth and started to reply, but for once it was not his twin who spoke the thoughts he planned to voice.

"Even _yrch _could not travel in _this_," Fuiniel said firmly. The twins nodded; they could not see one another's action, but they were acting now as one mind, and knew the other's senses as their own.

Not that any sense were doing them much good in this blinding snowstorm; they might as well have had their eyes closed and their ears stuffed with cotton for all the good it did in this impossible weather.

"This makes no sense," Elrohir grumbled.

Elladan felt a cold pit that had nothing to do with the storm open in his gut. _Glorfindel was right_. "It is Caradhras," he gasped, barely able to hear his own words over the violent wind tugging at his clothes and hair. His horse shifted anxiously beneath him, breathing hard in panic, but there was nowhere for her to go. Elladan stroked her frozen mane and wished he had some comfort to offer.

"That makes no sense, though," Elrohir insisted; somehow he had heard or at least sensed his brother's speech. "If the mountain did not want us to cross, why present us with a path clear of snow all the way to the peak?"

"It wanted us up here," Fuiniel's voice was dark and low and all but stolen by the wind, "because it could not destroy us until we were within its grasp."

Elladan shivered, frozen by that thought more than the storm; he was Elven-blooded, and cold did not affect him like it did mortals, yet even his eldritch heritage could not keep all the chill of Caradhras from touching him—and it did nothing to stave off the premonition of doom that was grasping now at his senses.

"Well, it shall learn that such a gamble was a poor one," Elrohir shouted defiantly. "Because we _shall _pass over this mountain, and it shall not stop us."

"Please do not make the mountain angry," Elladan muttered, but he said it to himself alone; there was no sense arguing with Elrohir when such a stubborn mood came upon him…especially when Elladan himself agreed with his brother's sentiments.

"Do you feel a sense of _warning_, brother?" Elrohir asked suddenly. "As if something does not want us traveling on, because danger lies ahead?"

"I think that _something _is the mountain," Elladan shouted back, "and I believe we are well past _warning _and into downright _wrath_ at this point!" His twin made no reply, perhaps too overwhelmed with the snow dashed at his face to force more speech.

"We should tie ourselves together," Legolas suggested, the small elfling's words almost lost at the edge of Elven hearing. "That way we will not be lost."

Elrohir was already pulling at the packs carried by his mount; he tossed a thin strand of _hithlain _to his twin, who tied the end securely around his wrist. "All right!" Elladan shouted, and felt a faint tug as his brother tested how much slack he wanted to chance. "But we ought to dismount and lead our horses on foot," the older brother insisted.

"Good plan," the other twin yelled back, "I shall take the rear. Legolas!" His voice abruptly dropped in volume as he turned to face the other direction. "Switch mounts with me, but be careful. Feel your way down the line…"

Elladan waited anxiously until he heard his brother's shout that the precarious switch had been managed without mishap, then tested the knot around his wrist one more time. It held fast. "Is everyone secure?"

Three answering shouts and one anxious whinny answered him. The young Elf Lord patted his horse gently on her frosted neck, then buried his fingers tightly in her mane. For once, he regretted that he did not ride with mortal accoutrements. He would simply have to hang on, and hope for the best.

Staggering under the force of the wind and snow, the four young Elves and their steeds pushed forward slowly up the Pass of Caradhras, defiant in the face of the mountain's fury.

But Caradhras has never been particularly fond of defiance, and the mountain redoubled its efforts. There was a loud _crack_, and sudden rumbling from above.

"Get back!" Elladan shouted, but the rest of his words were consumed by the thundering tumble of snow as the mountain seemed to crack in half, swallowing the elflings in an endless mass of snow and ice.

The last echoes of the avalanche trickled away as the snow slowly settled. As suddenly as it had come, the impossible storm faded into the bright, clear day. On the peak of Caradhras, all was silent and peaceful, an unbroken landscape of immobile, frozen white.

...

A rasp of ragged fabric on rougher rock echoed loudly in the silent caverns. A dark figure, twisted and broken beneath its filthy robes, paced back and forth, muttering foully to itself. Anger smoldered beneath its concealing hood, and swirled around its silent footsteps. It did not seem to feel the wintry cold of its dark stone surroundings, but hunched deeply in its cloak nonetheless. The dragging noise of its ragged robes sounded like fingernails scraping, echoing mockingly in the dark, frigid corridor of rock.

It regretted killing Aglarmegil so quickly. True, the _yrch_ had enjoyed their sport, and the foolish warrior would not have lasted long with injuries of that extent anyway, but the cloth-swaddled figure was frustrated nonetheless. There was no news from the scouts about the Imladris Elves, and now the thrice-cursed Thranduil was on the move again, apparently on the mend. How the foul king could foist himself back from death so easily was a mystery that the twisted figure could not fathom, but intended to correct soon. _Fading, he should have Faded by now_…

But there were other ways to kill an Elf than despair. The _yrch_, however, had failed once _again_. They were paltry, inefficient servants, but they were the only ones it had. A curse in the Black Speech of Mordor spat from the dark depths of the heavy hood. It ought to have known better than to try and assassinate Thranduil with stealth using _yrch_ to deliver the blow! Elves were creatures of the trees, and _yrch_ were very much not; how had it made such a foolish mistake as to think the simple creatures could drop on the unsuspecting king and slaughter him from above?

It was the frustration, and impatience. Desperate for _something_ to happen, it was making mistakes, and that would not be tolerated. It would have to do better—and so would the _yrch_. Perhaps it was time for some more _motivation_…

Many of the foul creatures had been lost to the Elven slaughter, but their numbers were practically endless. More slunk into the forest every night, moving under the cover of cloud and moonless night, sneaking right past the noses of watchful Elves and Men who thought they could contain the Shadow.

A cackling, broken hiss of a laugh jangled in the dark corridors. _Nothing _could contain the shadow, not now any more than the last time foolish Elves and Men had tried to stand against it! It laughed, and the caverns seemed suddenly darker and colder than before. Had there been anything left alive in them, it would have fled at the soul-chilling sound; but the _yrch _were ravenous, and any small creatures that had once resided in the twisting, crude caverns that served the foul things as a home hidden deep within Greenwood's forest were long since consumed.

There was no one to hear the shattered, Shadow-heavy laugh, but the earth shuddered nonetheless.

...

Gil-galad walked alone over the bare and broken, bloodied ground. Healers still moved among the wreckage, but their search was the desperate kind that one makes when one has long ago stopped looking, but cannot bring oneself to abandon the effort. His guards stood back a ways from the High King; some of them moved among the dead, others simply sat and wept. Even Elrond stood apart from him, the _peredhel_'s eyes brimming with sorrow.

Alone, careless of the threat that Mordor posed nearby—if they should dare strike against the High King now, they would face wrathful sorrow of which they had no name—Gil-galad walked the field of Oropher's defeat. He came at last upon what he sought: the broken body of Greenwood's liege. Gil-galad bowed his head and silent tears streamed down his face.

He knelt next to the once-proud form, his face creased with sorrow, and brushed a gentle hand along knotted strands of tarnished gold. The fire of the indomitable Silvan king had somehow been smothered beneath the weight of Mordor's endless Shadow, and the Alliance already felt smaller. Greenwood was such a small potion of their army, but Oropher's presence could have dwarfed a force of hundreds.

And now—what was it Greenwood's warriors called him again? _Aralor?_—Now the fierce _aralor _lay broken on the field, and Gil-galad bowed under the weight of ageless sorrow. Somewhere in the distance, a pale voice rose in a lamentation.

Gil-galad sighed, sorrow twisting in his gut like a poisoned snake. If only Oropher had not been so _stubborn_…if only _he _had realized _how_ stubborn the Greenwood king would be…if only he had sent the archers in to cover them, perhaps Oropher might have retreated…he could have taken the whole army in after them, but that would have caused even greater death and defeat. No, Gil-galad knew he had made the right choice; but that knowledge made this loss no easier to bear.

Rather, it seemed somehow to make it harder, for this tragedy could have been so easily avoided. So many dead in vain, victim to their stubbornness and that of their brash king—and, if Gil-galad was to be perfectly honest, perhaps even a little to his, as well. Oropher's endless disagreement had rankled, but perhaps if he had taken the time to convince Greenwood's king instead of arguing him down and outvoting him, perhaps then Oropher would have bowed to sense…

But recriminations alter nothing. What was done and dead could not be undone. Thank the Valar he at least had had enough foresight to split Greenwood's forces into two companies, or they would have all been lost. Gil-galad could so easily see bright Thranduil lying on this blood-soaked field beside his father.

The High King shifted the orc corpses that littered the ground around the golden king; he was long-since inured to the distasteful feel of orcish blood and flesh, and the bodies moved easily aside to reveal how fierce a struggle had finally managed to overcome Greenwood's stubborn king.

The mutilated form of a noble Lady lay crumpled atop the bloody body of proud Oropher. She had been hacked nearly in twain but even in death her hand had not relaxed its grip upon her sword. Grievous wounds decorated both bodies, and the ground beneath his boots was wet with all the blood that had spilt upon it. Oropher's corpse was so battered that only the blood-drenched gold of his hair gave testament to his identity; there was no emblem of rank or nobility on the armor of Greenwood's king save for that brilliant flame. The Lady bore no such signature locks and he could not recognize her once-lovely face, but Gil-galad knew this shattered form had to be Oropher's second-_gon_, the lady Gilthawen, now fallen in defense of her dead king.

The Noldor Lord felt fresh tears sting his sad grey eyes. All around him stretched the brutal spectacle of tragedy in vain, and it broke his heart.

Gil-galad levered himself slowly to his feet, unfolding as if over some vast and frozen distance. Elrond was suddenly at his side, trails of tears fresh in the ash on the _peredhel_'s cheeks; somehow he had sensed that he was needed.

"See that the bodies are attended to properly," Gil-galad told his herald and gestured at the bloody, broken forms lying before him. "Endeavor if you can to have Oropher moved off the field 'ere Thranduil comes looking for him," he added heavily. "I would not have the prince find him in this state." His frown deepened. "And try not to allow Gilthawen's daughters to see their mother like this."

"Yes, my lord." Elrond nodded, his deep eyes glittering with pain.

Gil-galad gently pried the blackened sword free from Oropher's cold hand. "I shall take this to Thranduil, and formally tell him of his father's fate," the High King said quietly. He wiped the dripping blade on his own cloak.

Elrond once more nodded, solemnly, but did not speak.

Erenion Gil-galad took a last long, weary look around the tragic field, then squared his shoulders under the weight of sorrow and strode across the corpse-strewn ground. His dark cape flapped about his ankles like a forlorn banner tugged by the thin, melancholic lament winding through the bitter, ash-filled air.


	36. Cold Steel

_Look, a summer update! Don't faint, I just spent a _lot _of time on airplanes this summer, and even without the computer along that meant there was time for some writing (finding the time later to transcribe it all into the computer later, a bit harder, but still...thank goodness for fast typing skills!) so enjoy this "back to school" surprise!_

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Six: Cold Steel**

The Pass of Caradhras was clear. Snow lay frozen on the path, but the Imladris horses easily scaled the hard-packed trail. The sky was bright and clear and empty, and one might almost have expected birds to sing. It was too cold for birds, of course, and Caradhras was not a place they frequented, anyway. Few things braved this angry peak, but the riders from Rivendell showed no hesitation.

Of the Elves that traveled this cold road today, less than a handful of them knew that it was the great ring Vilya on the rigid fist of Elrond that kept the mountain quiet, but they trusted their Lord and knew that somehow, he had made a peace of sorts with the cold, cruel peak to ensure their safe passage.

One of those few with this secret knowledge was Glorfindel of Gondolin, but he was not dwelling on the mystical nature of their calm weather. Rather, Glorfindel was sternly lecturing himself. He looked at the ungloved hands that were resolutely shaping a handful of snow into a smooth, round shape and told himself, quite firmly, to put the snowball down. Now was simply not the time to engage in such fancies.

The Gondolin Elf grimaced. While a smattering of icy whiteness on the back of his dark, un-hooded head might well have improved Elrond's looks, Glorfindel knew it would do nothing for his disposition. Well, that wasn't strictly true; Glorfindel was quite certain it would have an effect upon the _peredhel_'s disposition all right…he was just equally certain that it would not be to the better. That wasn't the argument. He had entertained no thoughts of throwing his surreptitiously gathered projectile at Lord Elrond (well, not for longer than a moment, anyway); the debate was about his urge to locate another target.

Unfortunately, the rest of the company seemed to be thoroughly infected with Elrond's miasma. While Glorfindel could readily admit that coming as far as the pass of Caradhras without finding the youngsters was rather troublesome, he'd endured far more annoying things in this life—not to mention the last one!—and he was, by and large, unbothered by the travel. Of course, the Balrog-slayer knew that it wasn't the travel in its own sake that was bothering the other Elves. It was the fact that they were now quite precariously balanced on the Redhorn Pass, and this meant that they had either passed their quarry by…

Or they hadn't.

And that was by far the more worrying prospect, for it meant that somewhere up above them four young Elves were daring this treacherous crossing in the dead of winter. That there was as of yet no more than a few casually swirling flakes, more blown up from the ground by the winds of the pass than descending from the sky, meant nothing. The weather of Cruel Redhorn did not depend upon many natural laws. They could easily turn the corner of the winding mountain trail and come face-to-face with the worst blizzard that any of them (save, perhaps, for Glorfindel) had ever seen.

And, they all privately feared but refused to say aloud, as if by keeping the thought silent they could keep it from Caradhras, within such a storm they might find the little ones. It was a dark gloom hanging over them, a shadow upon all their hearts. That was what made this such a miserable company, not the difficult climb up the steep mountain, not the threat of bad weather hanging imminently just out of reach.

And that was both why Glorfindel thought they needed a few snowballs slung about in the first place as well as why he knew he could never actually toss this perfectly shaped projectile at any of them. Glorfindel sighed, exasperated with his kinsmen. Brooding about the future changed nothing, but they all insisted upon it nonetheless. Glorfindel would far rather see that the day was brightened as much as it could be right now, and any bad news or ill fate that was approaching could just do as it pleased until it arrived. _Moping _certainly never helped anyone.

Abruptly, the Balrog-slayer started whistling. It was a cheery, if unusual, tune; one that hearkened back to the time of Gondolin's glory, and while he remembered it well it had never been one of his favorites. Still, it was a happy enough ditty, and Glorfindel was expertly on key, for all that he had heard no one but himself play at it for many long years. Perhaps a lifetime, although as a twice-born, he could not always be quite sure about that. It was entirely possible that he had heard it this life, but it was as equally possible that he hadn't heard it since he'd heard that dratted Balrog roar.

Without looking up, Glorfindel casually released the snowball with enough force to knock an orc backwards…

And that was exactly what it did. Shocked, the foul creature tumbled from its precarious perch, too surprised to scream on its way off Caradhras's snowy cliffs.

When the rest of the horde rose up in supposed ambush, leaping out of the snow along the edges of the trail to drop down upon their unsuspecting prey, they instead found themselves surprised at a very prepared and entirely _un_surprised band of Elven warriors.

Those who had ridden in Glorfindel's company before could recognize that hideously cheery tune he'd been whistling. It was the Balrog-slayer's signal that they were riding into an ambush and, maddeningly, he wanted them to _continue_ riding that way without showing whatever enemies were waiting so much as a tensed jaw to give away that they were aware of the trap. Those that had not patrolled or fought with Glorfindel before had been efficiently but subtly informed of the situation by their brethren, and all the Elves had reacted accordingly. Daggers had been palmed, bows had been freed, swords had been loosened; whatever preparations the Elves had needed to make that would not be seen as preparations had been made, and when the orcs attacked they were nearly driven back in shock as their supposedly hapless targets abruptly turned the ambush on its head.

The only one who hadn't been prepared was Lord Elrond. Fully occupied in a combination of dark thoughts and a stern inner battle between Vilya and Caradhras to ensure safe passage—and to gather any information the Elf Lord could about who else had passed this way recently—the _peredhel_ had been too absorbed within to take note of just what happy tune the irrepressible Glorfindel was so annoyingly whistling.

So, when the battle was joined, Glorfindel had waited only the scant necessary seconds to see one orc over the cliff with a snowball up its ugly nose, one orc stabbed in the gut with a quick up-jab as Glorfindel freed his sword with an extravagant flourish that aimed it perfectly between the scavenged plates of armor said orc was wearing, and one orc hauled bodily out of the air as it thought to leap upon Kelwioor's back and was, instead, tossed gently aside where its own momentum, ever-so-slightly redirected by the Gondolin Elf, carried it over the cliff to join Snowball Nose. Then, vaulting with a delicate grace from his mount's back—Kelwioor could take care of herself in a fight, and any orcs unlucky enough to be nearby, too—the Balrog-slayer not-so-delicately tackled Elrond right off his horse just as the _peredhel _wrenched his concentration away from the back of his eyelids to look up at the hideous creatures lunging forward.

Dark hair and golden flew with a flurry of cloaks into the snow but Elrond's horse—trained no doubt largely by his sons—knew better than to rear and, instead, turned a snorting glare at the orcs that had dared to come near. The warning taken care of, she promptly turned her hooves to them as well, as battle cries and the clash of steel on steel—and flesh—echoed distortedly through the Pass of Caradhras.

...

The part of the camp of the Last Alliance where Greenwood's warriors resided was alien and cold and broken. The few Elves that remained were for the most part huddled together in small groups of sorrow, although a few had secluded themselves with their grief. Wails of lamentation wove like ghosts on the wind through the pale tents, but it still seemed unnaturally silent.

No one else had dared set foot within their camp. The only member of the Alliance that might have dared brave such grief was Glorfindel, and he was still on the field of death and carnage. He knew when it was best to leave sorrow be and when comfort delayed would mean more than intrusive sympathy. Círdan had clasped Thranduil's arm and spoken to him, but when he sensed his words fell on deaf ears he, too, had withdrawn and left Greenwood to lick its wounds in peace.

And those were grievous wounds indeed, and none more so than those suffered within the tent of Thranduil Oropherion.

The prince sat on the gray earthen floor in silence, his shoulders shaking slightly, his eyes wide and empty but filled with shadows. The rage that had dragged him off the field by strong Noldorian arms had shattered and left him drained. His cheeks were wet with tears but his eyes were now dry crystal, blue and hard and blank. Long, thin fingers pressed against his pale face like shards of bone.

Tiraran crouched next to his lord, not daring to touch Thranduil but wanting to be near should the prince need him. His own face was white and blank and hard. The _gon_'s eyes were gray shattered shards hard enough to cut whoever gazed at him unprepared. The knuckles of his hands shone like bone, although he was unaware that they were clenched into heavy fists. His sword gleamed at his waist, slim and bright and dangerously unbloodied.

The sisters Angmeril and Merilgais were folded in each other's arms. Tears coated their faces, and Merilgais continued to weep waterfalls of sorrow. Angmeril's grey gaze had gone cold and small and shriveled. The younger of the two sisters hiccoughed; it was the only sound in the small, crowded tent. Angmeril was trembling at least as hard as Thranduil, and her fingers twisted in her sister's long hair as if the brown strands were all that restrained her from reaching for her sword. Merilgais's hands shook as hard as her sister's shoulders; she couldn't have held the glaive that lay discarded on the floor now even if she'd been able to dash the tears from her eyes enough to see the Enemy to strike.

Engwalyg paced mindlessly, his eyes narrowed to shiny slits of burning storm-clouds. Lightning seemed to flash on the dull hilt of the blade he kept fingering. His face was strained, and his lips kept moving jerkily although no sound emerged. His black hair flowed behind his pacing like a tattered banner. His eyes kept darting from Thranduil to the flap of the tent, as if he expected _yrch_ to come streaming in at any moment—_yrch_, or something worse.

Eregmegil stood near the entrance to the tent, his face a twisted mask of overwhelming grief, but his shoulders squared and strong. One hand rested protectively on the hilt of his wide sword. The other, clenched tightly in a fist at his side, trembled slightly. There were tears on his face and his eyes were fierce. He looked like an Elf that wanted to tear _yrch_ apart with his bare hands, but was afraid that if he moved he might shatter.

The last occupant of the tightly-packed tent was heavily bandaged. Aglarmegil sat hunched against the brace of Thranduil's bedroll in the corner. One could not see the thick cloth wrapped around his middle beneath his tunic, but his unnatural pallor was deeper even than the prince's, and stemmed from more than grief alone. He was cleaner than his companions, having come from the Healing Tents rather than the outskirts of a battle, and the scratches and scrapes on his face and hands had long ago healed while he was convalescing. Nonetheless, he looked near death, hurting even more from the wounds to his spirit than the half-healed injury his body still bore. His hands were clasped together tightly, and he kept rubbing them absently while he stared through the sisters at nothing.

Only Engwalyg started when there came a voice outside the tent; the others were too fully sunk within their own sad eyes. He turned on his heel towards the entrance and threw the flap open violently. Only when the High King Gil-galad stooped to step within the tent did the other Elves shake themselves free of grief enough to stare.

"What do _you _want here?" Engwalyg snapped. Tiraran shot to his feet and threw his chin back haughtily, and his eyes flashed sharp and ominous. Eregmegil's fingers closed over the hilt of his heavy sword, his face was a stony mask. He stared at the Elf Lord through slits of watery grey. The sisters rose slowly, Merilgais pale as snow and trembling with anger. Angmeril stepped between Gil-galad and Thranduil and placed a hand on the long knife still in her belt. The Prince of Greenwood had not moved, save to raise his eyes and fasten them like icy knives on Gil-galad's drawn face.

The High King ignored Engwalyg. His sad grey eyes saw only Thranduil, pale and gold and brittle. Ereinion Gil-galad bowed his head. In his hands was a long, curved sword that gleamed through the Shadow and the faint streaks of black blood that still clung to the pale metal.

"My heart weeps for the grievous loss felt today," the High King said. His face was grey and streaks in the ash and dirt on his cheeks made it look lined with mortal age. "Most keenly do I regret the loss that you bear, Prince Thranduil." He nodded to the sisters, but his heavy eyes were still fastened on Thranduil. "And that of all Greenwood."

Thranduil did not move. Gil-galad did not seem to expect him to.

"The dark deeds of this day," the Noldor Lord continued, "will long live as a wound to the heart of our people and to this Alliance most especially. I cannot properly express to you the sorrow that I feel personally at the loss of your father and so many of his brave warriors."

Merilgais took a step forward but her sister, face hard and white, caught the younger maiden's arm with a grip of iron and held her to a stop.

"Oropher was a valiant warrior, a king worthy of legend, and he shall be sorely missed by all of us here. Our Alliance is diminished without his presence." The High King raised his head and took a step forward, seemingly unaware of the Greenwood warriors bunching together and ready to step between him and their lord. Their glares formed a wall that lesser beings would have shattered upon, but the Noldor Lord paid the barrier no mind. "I offer you my deepest condolences, Prince Thranduil."

Still Greenwood's golden lord did not move.

Gil-galad frowned, ever so slightly. "When you have collected yourself and feel ready, Prince Thranduil, we should take council together. Not only must we discuss how to redress this loss, but also how best to make use of Greenwood's remaining strength without putting too great a strain on your tragically diminished numbers. The Alliance—"

"The Alliance?" Thranduil spoke at last, his voice icy-calm. One heavy eyebrow arched steeply beneath a crown of frozen gold. "There can be no alliance where there is also betrayal, Ereinion Gil-galad." The High King made as if to speak but Thranduil's gaze was so cold that even the Noldor Lord hesitated beneath it. "Greenwood will still stand against Shadow," Thranduil continued, his voice dripping with scorn. "We will _ever_ stand against the Shadow," he said quietly. "But do not think of us as your allies any longer. We are warriors on the same field, and we shall fight together to destroy the Evil of the Enemy, but we do not ally with kinslayers."

Gil-galad's eyes flashed but neither his face nor his voice wavered. He took another step forward. "You must not let your rage drive us apart, young prince," he said calmly. "Dissension is the Enemy's strongest weapon against us; we cannot give in to private grudges or irrational angers, or we all are lost. You must remember that there is only one Enemy here, and it is he that is responsible for the death of your father." Finally raising the unsheathed blade he carried, Gil-galad held it out delicately balanced on open palms towards Thranduil. "I bring your father's sword from the battlefield, Prince Thranduil. Fight with this at the side of all that stands for Good and Light in this world, and do not dishonor the Alliance for which he fought so fiercely."

Thranduil stood up and threw the blade aside. It clattered hollowly into a corner of the tent. "I am no Noldorian kinslayer," Thranduil cried, "to have my grief assuaged by some metal trinket! This is only a sword, and it means nothing!"

Ereinion Gil-galad's face was pale and his eyes were fierce stardust. "Calm yourself, prince," he said quietly, his voice heavy. "Think on what you say, and what you do, and what you may regret." Thranduil's eyes flashed just as sharply as the High King's as Gil-galad continued, gesturing to the fallen weapon. "The Blade of Oropher should wet itself again on the black blood of orcs, and in your hands—"

A small, sharp fist connected hard with Gil-galad's jaw and the High King's majesty crumpled abruptly to the ground. A silence so loud it hurt the ears rang in the crowded tent as every eye turned to stare at Angmeril standing over the stupefied form of Ereinion Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor, sprawled on the floor of Thranduil's tent.

He blinked and opened his mouth and could find nothing to say. Star-grey eyes shot from Angmeril to Thranduil and back again and still Gil-galad was too startled to speak. He touched his jaw, gently, as if he were uncertain that he had not just hallucinated the young elleth's blow. Blood trickled slowly from his split lip. His brows drew into a sharp, dark frown as the High King drew himself back to his feet with as much dignity as a Noldor Lord could muster when rising from the dust.

Angmeril threw back her head defiantly and braced herself. Merilgais stepped to her side. The other Greenwood Elves could only stare in blank astonishment. Thranduil's eyebrow quirked, and then his lips. "I believe Greenwood has spoken, _my lord_," he told the glowering king. Then ice-blue eyes turned dark and stormy and clouded over with shadow. "You should _leave_," he hissed. "Now."

Gil-galad stared a moment longer, his gaze a fierce gleam of angry starlight and ancient wrath. He did not speak again, but swirled his cloak about him in a tattered banner of blue and red and black, black blood. He brushed past the treelike form of stout Eregmegil and out through the flap and disappeared into the night of Mordor's shroud.

...

Elrond wrenched his sword roughly through a handful of cloak, tearing away the black blood that coagulated on the bright blade. His face was dark wrath of ancient days and the snow itself trembled before his rage. He glanced around the narrow pass and saw the rest of his company dispatching their final foes and cleaning their own weaponry and persons of the thick black liquid that was scattered about the pristine landscape of Caradhras like ink on fresh paper, or shadow on hope.

Gleaming like a personal beacon of hope, Glorfindel of Gondolin idly shoved a last orc that was feebly crawling for a sword, and the pitiful creature shrieked hollowly as it tumbled into the cold embrace of cruel Redhorn. The twice-born Elf's face was cheerful as he wiped a smear of blood from his pale cheek. Elrond ignored the grinning warrior, his own heart as cold as the mountain he fought with Ring and mind.

"Injuries?" Elrond barked, his tone sharp with distraction. It had been hard to fight with blade and thoughts at once, and the _peredhel_ knew that if it had not been for the skills of his forces—including the irrepressibly, infuriatingly bright Glorfindel—he would have taken injury from one of their foul foes or, worse, lost concentration and allowed Caradhras to overwhelm them all with snow and fury.

"Only minor, my lord," one of the warriors replied, cleaning his own blade with distaste. "All are fit to ride."

Elrond nodded, ignoring the low tension between his brows that was slowly creeping towards pain, and bent his will more fiercely upon the mountain. Where the hidden ring bit into his hand, the skin was pale and white and frozen to the touch. "Do any of the Enemy live?" he asked.

That question took longer to answer. "Nay," Gildor Inglorion at last answered, shamefaced. "I fear in our wrath, my lord, we took no thought towards questioning survivors."

Imladris's Lord nodded again. His spirits were unmoved by the news; they could sink no lower than they already were. Besides, questioning orcs was a distasteful and time-consuming business that rarely proved worthwhile. Even an uruk commander would have had the potential for better information extraction, but Elrond saw here nothing but the scattered remnants of those foul creatures called goblins in lesser tongues. And beneath the inscrutable stone of his face, part of the Elven Lord feared to hear the answers the orcs might have offered. Ignorance brought them no closer to victory, but it also meant there was still a chance of hope.

"We must send word back to Imladris and the Dúnedain," Elrond said, his cold eyes scanning the warriors before him. "They must know that orcs in truth lurk in large numbers this close to our home. Even supposing that we have slaughtered all of them…" He shook his head. "A chance I dare not take. Glorfindel, you are swiftest, you shall—"

"No."

Elrond turned to stare at the gold-haired Elf, less surprised than he would have been at such a refusal from any other member of his company, but still startled enough for the shock to crack an expression across his frozen visage.

" No, my lord," Glorfindel added respectfully, but unabashed. For once, the Balrog-slayer's gaze was cold and dark. "We are riding to greater darkness than any of us could have guessed when we set out to retrieve our lost elflings, and you shall need me before the end." Glorfindel's fingers brushed lightly along the hilt of his blade. "And we must ride now swifter than before, for if the mountain has not caught our wayward younglings, then chances are great that the orcs have them in hand."

Frozen Caradhras chilled still more and the Elves shuddered. For a moment, Elrond's eyes blazed and there seemed to be a star shining from his fingers, but then he blinked and shadow descended once more. "Then fast we shall be," he said coldly. "Gildor, you—"

"Shall ride with all haste, my lord," Inglorion bowed. Disappointment mingled with fear on his pale face, but Gildor would not argue as had his cousin. He would rather trade swords with the orcs than abandon his companions now to ride back to the haven of Imladris, but he rode swiftly and he knew that word must be carried to those who waited behind. Gildor leapt lightly to the back of his horse.

"Ride fast," Glorfindel counseled, the cheer back in his eyes although it seemed more strained now than before, "and do not let unfriendly eyes mark your passage."

Gildor nodded. "Good luck to all of you," he said simply, eyes anguished as he led his horse swiftly past the rest of the Elves gathered along the narrow pass. They ignored the bodies of the orcs, leaving them for scavengers or avalanche to claim, and gathered around their lord.

Gildor glanced back, heart heavy, and took a last look at his comrades, then turned and flew over the clear snow of the pass, back down the mountain and toward Imladris and the plains between—plains that would hopefully be empty of all save the cold snow, but which might even now be crawling with orcs.

Elrond sheathed his sword and took a moment to spare the mountain a quelling gaze. Vilya was as angry as her lord at the audacity of Caradhras daring to challenge them, and the Ring felt like flowing ice on his finger. With an angry swirl of cloak, and snow, and sparkling blue, the Elven Lord swung onto his horse and gave the order to ride—_ride fast_.

In their wake they left glistening snow dust, and corpses, and cold black blood.

...

Thranduil stared after the High King for a long time, then turned towards the two sister-warriors in the center of the small tent. He raised his eyebrows in silent question.

Angmeril bowed, her eyes hooded and face pale as snowflowers. "My lord, I apologize for my rashness," she said haltingly, then turned and fled the tent before Greenwood's lord could speak. The others stepped back and let her go; Thranduil made no move to call out or stop her flight. Merilgais glanced at him briefly then she, too, hurried out after the flurry of her sister's departure.

"Ang!" Merilgais gasped, following the other Elf-maid out the tent's flap. "I cannot believe you!"

The Elvish _gon _rounded on her sister. "Meril, do not say it!" she snapped, her eyes still blazing. Around them, the camp was dark and shrouded in grief both silent and lamented to the uncaring air of Mordor's smog. There was no sign of the High King. Angmeril's eyes were bright and wet, and her fists trembled. She glowered fiercely at her sister and the apparent censure that she was in no mood to hear, for all that she knew it was well earned.

"But it is not fair," Merilgais said with a frown, "_I _wanted to hit him."

Angmeril blinked, her rage wilting. "Oh." She shrugged. "Then as your commander, I would have had to punish you for striking him. Better that I take the swing; I answer only to _Ernil _Thranduil and…" Her voice died, and she took a deep breath that was mostly sob. "I answer only to _Aran_ Thranduil," she continued in a raw whisper. "And no other."

Merilgais wrapped an arm around her sister's shoulders and said nothing. Heads bowed, the two Elf-maidens stood alone in the cold darkness of the Elven camp.


	37. Weapons and Duty

**Chapter Thirty-Seven: Weapons and Duty**

All was gray beneath the pale thread of moonlight that struggled through the clouds over Mordor. All was gray, and empty, and hope had fallen into Shadow. And all was silent.

The songs of lamentation had faded, too, and on either side of the walls of the Dark Lord, naught stirred in the bleak night. The clouds rolled out over the moon and the stars like Sauron's grasping reach, smothering the battered camp of the Last Alliance and reaching towards the Middle Earth that lay beyond their bloodied swords.

But on the outskirts of the camp, one last, frail gleam shivered in the ghost of the moon.

The pale head of Thranduil was bowed under the weight of his silent sorrow. No voice he could give to them would do justice to his lamentations, and so he uttered none. The world had shattered around the young elf, and come crashing down to land on his shoulders. He was too wounded himself to support the weight, but the young prince—no, the young _king_—had no choice.

His people needed him.

A thin figure walked out on silent feet to join his cold vigil. Thranduil glanced up, but Angmeril was not looking at her lord. She sat beside him and stared at what little moon Elvish eyes could make out through the thick cloud cover. A long sword was balanced, naked, on her knees, but it could hardly find light by which to gleam.

"How fares your sister?" Thranduil asked at last, gently. He wondered why his _gon _was not with Merilgais; surely shared, their grief must be somehow easier to bear? For their sake, he hoped it was.

"She still weeps," Angmeril said. She did not shift her gaze from the moonlight, and Thranduil noticed that her pale cheeks were dry. "I can cry no more, and my heart cannot endure her tears." The _gon_'s fingers brushed the sword blade lightly, perhaps seeking comfort or perhaps merely checking the readiness of her weapon. "And you, my lord?"

"I find I can also weep no more," he said.

The ghost of a smile touched Angmeril's lips. "That is because of duty, lord," she told him.

"Duty?"

She took the sword from her lap, and stuck it into the ground between them. The hollow _shunk_ of the blade sheathing itself in the earth was harsh and loud in the empty night. "It stops your tears," she said softly, "because you feel that you must be strong for those who need you. You grieve, but you cannot show it even to yourself because you must be strong enough for them."

"You may be right," Thranduil said. He reached out and touched the hilt of the sword, gingerly—the hilt of his father's sword. He had left it lying in the tent where it had fallen when the Noldor kinslayer brought it to him. It was, as he had said, no more than a sword, a bauble of wood and metal, and it meant nothing at all.

But it was still his father's sword.

Thranduil lifted the blade carefully, testing the balance. Both blade and hilt were nicked and scoured with heavy use—much like his own weapon—but the sword was solid. He twirled it lightly through the air then set it on the ground next to him. Thranduil stared at the moon, and they said nothing as the night passed overhead. One hand rested lightly upon the pommel of his sword.

"You ought to be asleep, highness" Angmeril murmured after the moon had faded and returned.

"As should you," Thranduil replied.

"My place is at my pr—" She fell silent, and her swallow was loud in the dead land. "My king's side" she said.

The moon faded again before Thranduil at last spoke in the darkness. "I fear that if I sleep," he whispered, "I may choose never to wake."

Angmeril nodded understanding, and she said nothing more. The two Elves sat in the darkness, and watched where the moon would be if they could see it, and they grieved. Nothing grew in the land of Mordor, not even starlight, and the night passed in shadowed and empty skies.

But beneath the dark clouds, a small, brittle slash of gold flickered still.

... ... ...

Celebrían stood at the window and looked out upon the snow-covered valley of Imladris. It was one of the worst storms that the sheltered little kingdom had ever suffered. Celebrían was one of the few who knew that their traditionally mild winters were due to more than the protective nature of their valley. But her beloved had ridden out with his Ring, and without Vilya the weather was dark and cold.

But not, Celebrían knew, as dark and cold as it would be outside the shelter of Imladris. Outside, where her husband was even now seeking for their lost children. She well knew that Elladan and Elrohir could care for themselves, but for all that they were strong and brave they were young and reckless, and they were her sons. Celebrían feared for them. She feared for the other children too, of course, but the twins were _hers_. Every motherly instinct in her body urged her to take horse and ride out after her wayward younglings, but she could not.

She had a duty to her people, and so in Imladris she stayed.

She stayed despite the fact that the searchers ought to have returned with their quarry by now. She stayed despite the fact that she had no news, and no word. She stayed despite the fact that her sons might well be dying without her, because she had to. She stayed, and she organized and spoke and pretended that it mattered to send out patrols and consult with the Dúnedain and discuss with her advisors when her children were lost. She laid in provisions and laid out blankets and held meals and meetings. She smiled and told Arwen not to worry and everyone else that Elrond would no doubt return soon with the young ones unharmed and that the weather was bound to clear up soon, and she tried not to think about all the places her sons could be but were not.

Celebrían regretted now that she had never learned her mother's tricks of far-seeing. She regretted even more that Galadriel was not now in Imladris, but she and Celeborn had set out for travels across Middle-earth some years ago and of them there was little news. Celebrían knew that they had visited Rómendacil in Gondor, but where they had gone after that she could not guess. A glimpse in her mother's mirror would have done much to assuage her fears right now, but even more than the mystical visions Celebrían could have used some of her mother's wisdom.

Celebrían sighed, and there were tears in her clear grey eyes, but she did not let them fall. She did not need her mother's counsel, much though she would have liked the reassurance. The silver-tressed Elf-maid whispered a prayer to the Valar for the safety of her children, and watched the snow swirl into the sheltered valley of Imladris. She knew what she had to do, difficult though it was.

She had to wait.

... ... ...

The cries and clash of blades that rang through Greenwood's frozen trees sounded almost melodious, like some strange, twisted birdsong. It was a cacophony that the shadowy trees were growing used to, a concert of death being conducted by the fragile figure of golden wrath that swirled in the center of the battle.

Merilgais knew that _Aran _Thranduil was well protected, but she kept half her gaze fastened on the grieving lord nonetheless. It turned out to be more gaze than she could spare, and an extremely large uruk managed to shove his club under her guard and knock her to the ground. Her glaive twisted from her fingers and dropped softly to the sodden leaves on the forest floor. Merilgais cursed, words learned in battles long ago and far from home, and kicked the uruk in the knee.

Her lightly booted foot might as well have aimed for solid rock. The uruk didn't even grunt. He raised his heavy, spike-riddled club for the finishing blow, but even floored Merilgais was no easy target and the uruk had raised his weapon very high. Before he could bring it down, she had pulled a short, sharp knife from her belt and swept it across his thick legs. Black blood poured down as flesh parted and bone gleamed, and the uruk toppled. Merilgais slit his dark throat smoothly, then struggled to get out from under the heavy, still twitching corpse.

She swore again and squirmed free only to catch an _orch_'s sword across her shoulders. The blade cut lightly, its target already tucking and rolling, but though she could ignore the searing but shallow gash on her back her roll had been away from her glaive, and the _orch_'s sword had a much longer reach than her little knife.

Merilgais hoped that Tiraran was nowhere within sight. The _gon_ had spent the last few hundred years telling his unruly warrior that she trusted her unconventional weapons too much, and if he spotted her disadvantaged because of the lack of sword or bow, she would never live it down. Merilgais dropped to a crouch under the _orch_'s swing and kicked at its ankles with both feet. Smaller and frailer than the filthy uruk, this foe toppled, loudly, and chopped about wildly with a blade that came nowhere near the agile elf-maid. She tossed her knife, and it flashed through the same patch of air that the _orch_'s throat passed as the creature struggled towards its feet. The _orch_ never got there, but fell again, gurgling. Merilgais—grumbling foully—sprang across the corpses and grasped her glaive once more.

She whirled back to the body to retrieve her knife, but found it already held out and waiting for her, wiped mostly clean of the foul black blood it had found in its orkish target.

Fortunately, it wasn't Tiraran; unfortunately, it was almost as bad—maybe even worse.

"My thanks, highness." She nodded a bow and slid the knife back to her belt. At least Tiraran wasn't standing with Thranduil's guard at the moment, although if the king was at her side, the _gon_'s eyes would be on them. Maybe he'd been distracted, and hadn't seen her lose the glaive. She could hope.

"You must keep a hold of your weapons, lady," the king said, his voice soft and his face frozen and pale.

"Your advice is astonishingly wise, lord," she shot back before she could stop herself. "Thank the Valar you offer your strategic genius to us poor soldiers. How we would even fasten our armor without your aid…" Remembering herself, the elf-maid clapped her mouth shut, finishing with a shrug. Not even the burning ache in her _fëa_ could stop her tongue; swifter even than her blades, Merilgais's mouth was far beyond the control that she had over the weapons she could hold in her hands.

The words had no visible impact on the wraith of her king. He nodded, ever so slightly, and his eyes were sharp and empty and shattered.

A flash of anger took Merilgais's words away from her again. The king turned aside to send his blade once more seeking _orch_-flesh, but the warrior-maiden's sharp tone froze him mid-breath. "You are not the only one who mourns, lord," she snapped. "You are not the only one here who has lost friends—_family_. But we cannot lose _you_ as well, highness! Greenwood cannot endure _that_—not again…"

Tears flowed in the elf-maid's steely eyes, but her cheeks were dry save for a smear of black. "You cannot leave us," she whispered, and the black-bloodied fingers on her glaive trembled.

Thranduil turned back to face her, slowly, and beyond the broken shards of ice in his eyes there was a flicker of cold fire. "I am not leaving," he said, and there was more pain in those words than most elves could have shown with screams of agony. _Dearly though I would like to_, he did not say, but Merilgais could hear the admonishing words anyway. _Dearly though I would like to give up on this world,_ her king did not tell her, _I know my duty, and I will never shirk it. I am Greenwood's Aran, her aralor. And I will always be here, whatever the cost._

Merilgais bowed her head. "I am sorry, lord." She willed her heart not to break again; no matter how much practice one had putting it back together again, the pieces never fit the way they were supposed to. "I forgot myself."

Cold, thin fingers grasped her shoulder. "Do not apologize," Thranduil spoke softly. "I deserve the censure. But I shall not fail you again."

Merilgais shook her head but could not meet the jagged edges of grief in his eyes. "You have never failed us, lord, Valar knows you _should _have with all we ask of you."

"I ask no less of you," he said.

She raised her head and summoned a bitter twist of smile. "If that were true," she said, "we all would have broken long ago, and you know it. We cannot all claim possession of the sort of stubbornness it takes to make an Oropherion."

Thranduil blinked, and for a moment almost seemed as if he would smile, if he had not forgotten how. "My dear Merilgais," he said at last, and in his voice there was a ghost of his old tones, "if you attempt to tell me that _you_ are not _stubborn_…" An eyebrow quirked and Merilgais could have cried, or burst into cheers. It was the frailest of glamours upon her king, she knew, that had cast some semblance of his former self across his broken features, but that frail thread was enough to offer the chance that their _aralor_ might someday truly return to them.

"Never that, highness," she replied as lightly as she could. "I was, of course, speaking of Tiraran, and not myself."

"Ah." Thranduil nodded.

"I am a simple elleth, lord," she continued, hoping the banter did not ring as false to her king's ears as it did in her own. "As long as there are _yrch_ to chop I can drag myself through the day—whatever comes of it." _And_, she added silently, _so long as you are there to lead and lend us spirit, aralor_.

"Whatever comes indeed," Thranduil murmured, and then the tide of battle swept towards them again. They exchanged nods and moved as one towards the black shapes of the _yrch_, their weapons gleaming despite the tarnish clinging to the precious _aralor_, and for a moment it was so like to echoes of years past that Merilgais could see a treeless field of grey death and a younger, brighter _ernil _Thranduil with head unbowed and sword held high. Then the moment broke and Merilgais twirled her glaive and speared an _orch_ and the black blood spurted like a shadow past her eyes.

But beneath the Shadow, her lost Thranduil might be in there still. Merilgais recklessly dared allow herself to hope, and the elf-maid kept half her gaze on her king as they stepped back into the battle.

... ... ...

Engwalyg stalked the corpse-riddled battlefields of his king's fall like a vengeful spirit. The tall Elf was wrapped in his thick cloak not against the dry chill of Mordor's air, but against the frozen tears of sorrow and shame. He kicked a dead _orch_ aside like a child might send stones skittering along a path. The only light was the dark glimmer of rage in his grey eyes, and the faint gleam on the cold steel at his belt.

He walked past the Alliance's sentry lines unchallenged, ignoring the Men and Elves that guarded their camp against the Enemy. They were not his kin; he cared not what they thought of a lone Elf venturing into unsafe territory. Let them try and stop him, warn him; he would relish the chance to turn blade to allies who had betrayed his people to their death. But they watched him go, and they did nothing. Engwalyg walked on alone.

He stalked through the dead _yrch_ festering where they had fallen; the Enemy would not care about recovering their deceased comrades as long as their food stores held out. A "proper burial" in _yrch _culture was within the belly of one's comrade. Somewhere, wolves howled. Engwalyg would have been surprised to find living creatures this close to Sauron's dark domain if it were not for the tempting meals scattered across the grey fields. This war was a carrion-feeder's dream banquet.

Engwalyg looked up at the high walls and sharp rocks of the Enemy's domain. He was closer to it now than he had ever made it in battle; his sharp eyes could make out sentries pointing down at him. Engwalyg did not care that he was within their range; let them come out and face him. Let the stupid creatures think him a target of opportunity, an Elf so shattered by grief that his wits had addled and he came here for foul death at their black-blooded hands. Let them come to sport with him with laughs and jeers and wicked blades. He would not flee their sortie.

For they would be wrong. He was not broken by grief. It was _rage_.

Every fiber of Engwalyg's slim form trembled with the dark cloud of vengeance that had wrapped around his heart upon Oropher's fall. Sauron thought his rage at the Valar was deadly? Sauron had not yet looked into Engwalyg's dark eyes. The Dark Lord of Mordor would do well to tremble; if Engwalyg could have scaled the walls of Mordor and walked into the halls of Barad-dûr, he would have slain the monster with his own bare hands and feared no evil thing.

Engwalyg stared up at the small forms of _yrch _and men and other fell creatures on the besieged watch-walls. He wanted their barbs and arrows to rain down upon him. He wanted them to rush out at him with swords and spears and teeth. He wanted to see the ragged shadow of the Enemy charging towards him.

He wanted, desperately, to feel his sword cut their flesh and bone and cast their bodies to the dark, dusty ground at his feet. He wanted to soak the earth with their thick, black blood. He wanted his sword to turn black with the filth of it. He wanted to cut, and cut, and kill until all the Enemy were dead and he could feel no more.

He wanted vengeance for his king, and his kin, and his broken hopes. He wanted the Noldor Lord's head on a pole, and Sauron's broken corpse at his feet. He wanted Oropher to walk out of the Halls of Mandos and lead Greenwood in one final charge against all those who had broken and betrayed them.

He bowed his dark head, a small shadow in the land of shadows. There were no stars to light the darkness of Mordor, no golden ray of hope to brighten the dim gray fields. No one came. The Enemy stood beneath their walls, and Gil-galad was far away. The Halls of Mandos were still. On the cold, corpse-riddled battlefield, Engwalyg stood alone.

... ... ...

_Darkness._

Fuiniel struggled against the smothering black though she did not know why she fought it. It felt comfortable, and almost safe. But she could hardly now remember a time when she did not fight, and so she struggled. She dragged her eyes open and wondered why it hurt to breathe.

Dull, frozen, familiar trees swam sideways in her vision. She felt dead grass and leaves beneath her and a flash of fear lent urgency to her quest to rise. If she was not in the treetops, she was not safe. She pulled her fingers into fists and felt the comforting hilt of a long, white knife. She pulled it to her chest, panting for air, and only then noticed that there was something cold and wet upon her face. She touched it lightly with her fingers, and put them to her lips, and tasted blood—the red, pure blood of an Elf. She looked down at the knife and saw that it was coated with the thick black that came from _yrch_, but her hands were stained with her own color. Her fall-leaf tunic was a darker, deeper red, and stiff with blood both dried and wet.

She pushed herself to a sitting position and looked around. There were foul carcasses of _yrch_ in the brush, but no sign of her companions. Fuiniel inched backwards towards the nearest tree trunk and almost cried out when the back of her head brushed against it. Anxious fingers found wetness in her crooked braid, which explained the difficulty she had found in rising. She must have been struck on the head in the…battle…

_The ambush!_ They had struggled down from Caradhras, from the snow and wrath and ancient menace, and staggered mountless and half-dead into Greenwood at last—right into the waiting arms of the foul _yrch_. A flash of anger carried Fuiniel to her feet, although she had to steady herself against the comforting tree. How dare they, now when they were so close at last, how dare they come upon them _now_! Cold wrath flowed through her stiff limbs and gave her the strength to walk the field of battle.

She was alone.

Fuiniel bent down and picked up a long, thin knife. It gleamed like white bone beneath the black ichor clotted upon its blade. Her face hard and cold as stone, the young elf-maid wiped the twin knives clean and sheathed them together in her belt. A strip of skirt bound the gash over her ribs, and another makeshift bandage went around her throbbing skull. The bleeding had mostly stopped already, but she had bled enough for them to think her dead—else the _yrch_ would have ensured it, or worse, taken her as well.

For the only reason her companions would not be here with her was if they had been carried off by the _yrch_. Fuiniel bent down and gathered unbroken arrows, and studied the ground. She was no tracker, but _yrch_ were unskilled in discretion. A child could have followed their trail with ease—

And one did. Small and wounded and alone, Fuiniel walked into the shadows under Greenwood. White knives gleamed in her belt and wrath in her eyes. She went hunting.


	38. Sunlight and Stars

_Well, first of all, oops and sorry for taking so long. College happened, and is now over (whee, graduation, oh crap, now I have to try and get a job, yippee), and sort of sucked all my time. Considerably. Apologies._

_Since it's been so long, perhaps a brief summary of recent events is in order: The errant children made it to Greenwood, but were ambushed by the orcs. Legolas and the Twins were carried off and Fuiniel was left for dead, but she wasn't, and is now tracking the orcs and her kidnapped comrades through the forest. Elrond and his forces from Rivendell beat off an orc ambush on the Pass of Caradhras and sent Gildor Inglorion back to Imladris to warn Celebrían and the Elves there of the orc presence while the rest of them ride on to Greenwood on the trail of the children. Thranduil and the Elves of Greenwood have been occupying themselves lately by hunting down and slaughtering orcs within their borders. And the last we saw of the long-ago flashbacks of the Last Alliance, Thranduil and the remnants of Greenwood's forces had told Gil-galad to shove off and Angmeril had punched him in the face. But they were all really upset about the death of Oropher and most of their friends, so it was really an understandable reaction._

_And now that this "Previously, on Shadows Creeping…" is done and you're all caught up, finally, on to the story…_

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**Chapter Thirty-Eight: Sunlight and Stars**

The last of the snow had long since shook itself from the flashing hooves of mounts, cast off by the speed of their passage. Their haste was such, however, that despite the warmth of the wintry day and distance they had traveled from Caradhras, scatterings of snow still melted on their shoulders and bent heads. The Elves of Imladris rode with a haste that had not been seen on these paths in many years.

Those who traveled these roads were oft bound for the Gray Havens, and to that destination, no rush was ever needful.

But today the Elves rode away from the West. Their aim was Greenwood, and on such forests the light of Valinor had never gleamed. It was a land of Morquendi, a land where the trees had never inspired wars of dire oaths and deadly jewels. It was the furthest one could tread from the Undying Lands and still fall under the influence of the Eldar.

And today, they all feared, it was going to be the site of sorrows they had all fought to keep from this world evermore. There was not an Elf among the company who had not lost some dear companion to the toll exacted by the Last Alliance, yet Shadow and orcs still roamed these lands of Middle-earth.

They rode on the heels of such beasts. If they were still searching only for four lost elflings, they would have had to move much more slowly, but alas they did not need to check their pace. They could travel with haste, for all that they were ostensibly tracking the passage of ones who had come before them, for orcs in haste were not known for hiding their paths. The destruction of their many heavy feet was plain for Elvish eyes to see even while speeding by on horseback.

There was always the chance the elflings might have turned aside; always a chance that only coincidence placed the orcs on this same road. The two groups might never have met at all. There was always a chance. And to that chance the Elves of Imladris clung…but did not trust to hope.

Far more likely that the orcs followed the elflings, and if that were so, all Elrond's forces could hope to do was catch the monstrous creatures up before they came upon their own young quarry. And if by some chance, those they sought had turned off, the Elves would gladly backtrack and scour their steps meticulously for signs previously missed, after they had dealt with the orcs they now pursued.

They lost nothing but time if their battle with the orcs turned out to be pointless; better to waste time—for what is a few days here and there to immortals who have already seen centuries?—than to risk letting a band of orcs catch the children. Unless they had done so already…

And with that fear in their hearts, the Elves rode on and rode hard, making all speed for the dim forests of Greenwood.

... ... ...

Beneath Greenwood's tall trees, the sounds of night slowly returned as the last gurgling cries and clash of metal faded. Thranduil stood, closely flanked by guards yet still alone amidst the corpses, and his golden head was bowed. The _yrch_ were slain or fled, and his empty wrath was cold comfort in the darkness of the night.

Nearby, his _gon _was locked in quiet argument with his most solid of warriors, but Thranduil did not see them. Eregmegil's bloody club of a sword flickered and twitched and carved furrows in the air; Tiraran's anger was more contained, spreading no further from the clenched fist on his sword pommel than the occasional sharp gesture. Their whispered voices grew louder but Thranduil did not move until Eregmegil at last broke away from Tiraran and, shoving the _gon _aside when he tried to stop him, stalked up to the king.

"Thranduil!" he called, and the king's head rose slowly. "Your highness," he added belatedly, "we must do something!"

"My lord," Tiraran began, fretting at Eregmegil's heels, "your pardon for the interruption, it is nothing—"

"Nothing?" Eregmegil frowned at the _gon_, then returned his gaze to the king. "My lord, the _yrch _were in the _trees_. Something is clearly going on beyond simple orkish bloodthirstiness. They either—"

"And it is being looked into," Tiraran said firmly, trying to pull the larger elf away. "Do not trouble yourself, my lord. Eregmegil—"

But the warrior in question ignored his commander. Tiraran might as well have tried to move a grandfather oak. "They either have a _plan _or a _leader_," he insisted loudly. "And whatever their scheme is, we cannot allow it to fester in our forest because Tiraran is afraid that you somehow cannot…" he faltered, for a moment, when he met the jagged shards of grief in Thranduil's eyes. "Because he is afraid that you are too fragile to handle the news," he forced herself to continue, grimacing. His stony expression softened with distress and surprise. "My lord…are you?"

Greenwood's king was pale and brittle and shattered, but he was Greenwood's king, and his gaze was steady. "No, Eregmegil," Thranduil said, "I am not." He placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. "But I am sorry that I have…let you down."

Eregmegil did not look away. "Never, my lord!" He knelt on the bloodied ground, but his eyes did not leave Thranduil's face. "You are our king, lord; we can ask no more of you than that. But you are _aralor_ as well, and you will never fail our hopes." It was the most eloquent Eregmegil had been in years; poetry was not in the solid Elf's nature, and only _Aran _Thranduil could have inspired such speech from the warrior. "You do for us more than we could ever dare ask, lord, in the face of loss that even the Enemy himself would be moved to weep at."

The faint ghost of a smile again tugged at Thranduil's icy face. "I doubt Sauron was ever much given to weeping, noble Eregmegil, but your sentiment is appreciated nonetheless." The king clasped his soldier's thick arm and hauled him to his feet. "Come, my friend, show me these _yrch_ who dare think they can walk our leafy paths." He nodded to his _gon_ who, frowning in concern, followed and said nothing.

Tiraran would have spared his king all the troubles in Middle-earth if he could but hide them from Thranduil's sharp blue eyes, but Eregmegil was the sort of dutiful warrior who trusted his king more than the Valar themselves; trusted his wisdom, and his strength. Trusted his _gon_, too, but never over the word of their king. It was Thranduil's voice who led their actions, unquestioned, and Thranduil's will that ruled their lands.

Bur Tiraran knew that even Elvish gold could only endure so much.

... ... ...

Thranduil was carefully cleaning his sword—his father's sword—sitting on a long-empty barrel outside his tent. Around him, the Greenwood warriors were doing their best to pretend that they were not all walking around with hearts broken and hope shattered—

All _but _shattered. Their eyes drifted one by one to the young, newly named king, and when they looked away again their steps were surer, their gazes brighter. Angmeril was nearby, struggling to comb thick orcish blood from her much-neglected hair, but they did not speak. They had said that which was important nights ago, and had nothing new that needed to be added. There would be battle soon, and they would speak of that, and of taking counsel with their so-called allies, but later. This was still a day of desperate healing, and the rest of the Alliance was smartly leaving the Greenwood Elves alone.

Or at least, most of them were.

An unfamiliar voice in front of Thranduil cleared his throat. The king looked up, and then down at the short, solid-looking Dwarf in front of him. Thranduil knew that they had a few small Dwarf clans fighting with them—had in fact fought side-by-side with the surprisingly fierce creatures more than once, and seen them fall in battle as well—but he had never figured the trick of telling them apart from one another. They just looked like heavy piles of metal plates stacked on one another and sprouting thick beards and oversized axes.

Something about this one gave off an air of command, however; perhaps it was the two other Dwarves who flanked him like guards. He nodded amiably to Thranduil, who did not rise but waited politely enough for the interruption to state his purpose.

"I greet you, Thranduil son of Oropher, and offer my sympathies for the loss of that most valiant warrior," the Dwarf said. The formal sympathy seemed somehow more genuine coming from that short mouth than it had from more lordly allies.

"I thank you for them…?" Thranduil replied, honestly, though he trailed off, waiting for a name.

"Durin the Fourth," the Dwarf replied promptly, sensing the heart of the Elf's confusion. The name seemed familiar, but Thranduil could not place it. Perhaps it was a common one for Dwarves. If this one was the fourth in his family to bear it that was doubtless likely. There were only a few Dwarves here, after all—and rather less of them now than there had been to start with—so for Thranduil to have heard the name enough for it to stick in his memory there must be more than one here who bore it.

"And my kinsmen and I would gladly have charged with your father," he added.

At that, Thranduil frowned angrily, although the emotion was weak and watery. So much rage had coursed through the young Elf in the past few days that only the smoldering embers of wrath remained for this stunted creature. "Your kin seemed ever to agree with Gil-galad in conference," he snapped.

Durin shrugged. "The Noldor and the Númenóreans are wise and counsel well their pragmatic plans of battle, and so we go along with their strategy. It seems sound, and well-thought, and the sort of plans one ought to follow for a war of this magnitude." Beneath their visor of heavy metal and thick brows, the Dwarf's eyes gleamed. "But we have noticed," he added, "that you Elves of Greenwood are more reckless." He said the word like a compliment, and Thranduil could have been mistaken, but beneath his heavy beard he appeared to be smiling. When he continued, there was a rumbling passion to his words. "While we may reluctantly be thus persuaded to listen to the High King and his kin, we Dwarves would much rather charge the Gates now and tear the Enemy out with battleaxe and blade and our bare hands if need be." Durin idly fingered his heavy battleaxe. "It irks us to sit and let him laugh at us behind his walls."

The Dwarf's gaze was strong and sharp as it locked with Thranduil's. "If at any point you think you can commit the rest of these cautious fellows to an honest, glorious charge, you will have the sons of Durin and our stout blades at your side, Prince Thranduil." He gave a bow and Thranduil found himself instinctively returning the gesture of respect.

"I am pleased to hear it," Thranduil replied, despite his surprise. "I have seen enough of your fighting prowess to know that despite small numbers, you are invaluable in battle."

Diplomatically, no mention was made of the Dwarves who fought alongside the Enemy, although it was their prowess Thranduil was thinking of as well.

Durin grunted, apparently pleased. "I'd rather have you at my side than those mighty Noldor, I'll tell you that," he said with a hairy grin. "You woods-creatures are odd, no denying that, but there's good stone to your spines somewhere under all that greenery."

Thranduil somehow felt it as more compliment than insult. Certainly that was how the Dwarf meant it, backhanded though it had been. Before he could formulate any sort of attempt at a proper reply, though, Durin continued:

"Anytime you tire of those light Elvish defenses," the Dwarf said, waving his heavily plated arm to encompass not just Thranduil's modest armor but the entirety of Greenwood's camp, "my kindred would be glad to offer our services in the crafting of stouter protection."

Thranduil blinked. "I…thank you for your generous offer," he said, almost smoothly. Before he could come up with anything to add, horns rang out, calling them all to battle once more.

Durin grinned and held out his hand. "Good luck, prince Thranduil," he said, giving the king's arm a hearty shake.

"And to you as well, Durin the Fourth of the Dwarves."

Then Angmeril was at his side, and his warriors as well, and the short Dwarf was lost in the bustle of the camp as Greenwood made itself ready for war.

... ... ...

Golradir rode through the brittle grass wrapped in guilt.

Knowing that no Elf could have resisted the power of the Twins' twisting words did nothing to assuage his feelings. Knowing that if he had stopped them, the elflings would have simply turned to one of a hundred other plans of escape did nothing to lift the burden he felt at their disappearance. Knowing that no one in Imladris had so much as given a second's thought to blaming him for the loss of the elflings only made him feel more wretched.

Finding trampled grass and scattered blood and broken arrows and orc corpses nearly sent Golradir to the Halls of Mandos by his own hands.

The Imladris Elves stared in hushed shock and horror at the site of battle that had greeted them upon their arrival at the edges of Greenwood Forest. Lord Elrond was sitting very, very still on his horse. No one had yet been brave enough to meet the Elf Lord's eyes yet all present could feel the wrath within them. There was a shadow on the horizon and it carried steel and vengeance with it.

The only sound in the decimated forest glade was the soft, sharp sound of Elvish blades being loosened in their hilts and the hum of bowstrings tested for tautness. Glorfindel was the first to dismount from his horse. The Gondolin Elf Lord stalked lightly into the field of battle, his sharp eyes searching for the hopes that the others were too afraid of not finding to dare looking.

"We are too late," someone whispered, and the forest was a very cold, dark place for the gathered Elves. Something bright gleamed in Elrond's hand.

"No." The voice was Glorfindel's, the twice-born Balrog-slayer glaring up at them from a small patch of frail winter sunlight on the thick carpet of the bloody forest floor. His fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. "No," he repeated again, and in his voice there was no chance of argument. "We are not," Glorfindel said. "But we must make haste."

The golden-haired Elf Lord swung himself back upon his mount and was the first to trot into the shadowy trees of Greenwood. Elrond was on his heels and the others were but a breath behind. Imladris had come to Greenwood, and would not leave without that which they sought, Shadow and darkness be damned.

... ... ...

Glorfindel sat in the darkness of Mordor, a small childlike form wrapped in a heavy cloak under a moonless sky. He was a small, golden star lost on the dead ground of Sauron's domain. His aged eyes watched another lost star, this one black and angry, pacing back and forth in front of the Enemy's walls. Glorfindel sighed heavily and his uncanny eyes were full of unshed tears.

He had had enough of fighting long ago, and had thought for a time that he was done with it. But the world was not, and Glorfindel could not remove himself from that which he loved, even when that which he loved seemed so often to be full of naught but grief.

It was harder this time around. Everything seemed smaller, all lesser copies of what had gone before. Gil-galad was a bright star of a king, but an echo of those that had fallen before him. Their army was a grand one, but paltry and desperate when held up to the armies of the last Age. There were no Valar here, save the Enemy, and Sauron was a pale imitation of Morgoth, a weak shadow of a Dark Lord with simple illusions and thin magicks. His allies were of the same sort: naught but orcs and men for the most part, small and pathetic creatures biting at the ankles of greater legends. Nothing was as bright as it had been the first time, nothing as sharp or as strong. Glorfindel sometimes felt like he was walking through a mist.

Mandos himself had warned the Elf, had counseled against his choice, had told him that it was too soon. But Glorfindel could not give up on his Middle-earth. He loved it too dearly, had already sacrificed too much for it to turn his back on it now, when it needed him. No, Sauron was no Morgoth, was a cheap imitation of unimpressive ambitions and ideas, was not the threat that his predecessor had been…

But he was evil, and bent on spreading his dark shadow across the world of Elves and Men.

Glorfindel was not one to overlook an evil just because he had once fought a greater one.

So the twice-born child sat in Mordor's barren fields in a starless night and watched for stars that would never shine and refused to give up the hopes that they could.


	39. Ellith

_Well, here's a surprise present for the winter holidays: turns out I did not, after all, abandon all of you and my poor unfinished stories. Pray do not expire of shock! I shall not promise to do better in the future, but merely ask your forgiveness in advance. Have a better winter than the elflings, everyone! Happy holidays.  
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**Chapter Thirty-Nine: Ellith**

Elrond _Peredhel_ stepped into the High King's tent with only the most perfunctory of announcements for his arrival; they had been at war long enough that there was no need for Gil-galad's herald to wait on ceremony. "My lord," he began speaking even before the tent flap had closed behind him, "all of our dead—all of _Greenwood's_ dead," he corrected and specified; the Silvan Elves were of the Alliance, yet always had they stood off ever so slightly behind their brash, golden king, and especially on this night when all the slain belonged to that distant woodland realm, Elrond felt the need to differentiate the warriors of Greenwood from the rest of their desperate Alliance as he told of their fate. "They have been taken from the field. We are now preparing the—"

The herald stopped, suddenly and unexpectedly at a loss for words. He stared at the High King. Gil-galad held a bloodstained handkerchief to a freshly split lip and his face was harsh and drawn. Elrond blinked. "My lord, what has occurred?" he asked. Surely none of the Enemy could have penetrated their camp and beset Lord Gil-galad, especially with no cry of alarm issued? What, then, could have befallen the Noldor Lord in the scant hours since Elrond had last seen him on the tragic field of carnage?

"I spoke with Greenwood," Gil-galad said shortly. Blood dripped down his chin. Already a bruise was forming on his pale face. Elrond was shocked. It would take a mighty blow to darken the flesh of so great an Elf Lord as Erenion Gil-galad.

"I…see," said Elrond. "I assume that it did not go as well as anticipated."

Gil-galad gave his herald a dark look and turned away without speaking. The herald discreetly said naught more, but moved across the tent to the long table on which battle plans and war maps were kept. They ever needed organizing in this desperate struggle, and he could busy himself with that quite legitimately while avoiding speaking further to his lord on the subject of their woodland allies.

Elrond frowned mightily. Was this, then, how noble Greenwood comported itself? Was this the sort of behavior that one Elven Lord owed to another? Surely, _surely_, even in his grief, Thranduil had not descended into such barbarism as to actually strike the High King?

Never did it occur to Elrond that anyone other than the young prince—or rather, tragically, the new young king—could have dealt the blow. What Elf would have dared strike Erenion Gil-galad save for the rude, haughty Lord of Greenwood? Even noble Círdan treated Gil-galad with respect; even ancient Glorfindel who had fought alongside heroes beyond legend treated Gil-galad with respect. Even elderly Elendil, the noblest mortal Elrond had ever met, treated Gil-galad with respect. Only Oropher and his son had ever offered scorn to the High King. Only Oropher and his kin could be so brash, so crude, so…inappropriate in their behavior. Elrond would not ask Gil-galad who had dared strike him; he did not think he needed to have it confirmed, and to pay further attention to the base insult of Greenwood's new lord would be to lend his actions more import than they deserved. Elrond would not forget this slight to his king—he was prepared to overlook a great deal from Thranduil of late, for the grief and sorrow of his recent loss, but this was asking propriety to stretch further than even insensate grief, Elrond thought, could allow—but he would not mention it again.

Certainly the proper young herald would never entertain the thought that, if it had not been Thranduil's hand to deal the blow, it might have been Angmeril's. Bad enough to believe such a breach of decency of a king; to suspect it of a delicate maiden was more than Elrond _Peredhel _could manage.

... ... ...

The dead leaves of winter whispered lightly to one another in the still air of the night. Above, the stars were bright and sharp as they gazed down on Arda and Aman with equally chill scrutiny. Within the boughs of Greenwood forest, thick and tangled even in the cold of winter, little of that starlight could be seen. There was naught but shadow and silence.

And in that silence, the light, fleet step of Elven warriors. They made no sound as they traveled through the treetops, a road as familiar to them as that of the ground below, perhaps more so. For the Elves, a thin branch was as good a path as any well-paved road, and they could travel swift and silent within the swirl of gently rustling leaves. Trees, all of Middle-earth knew, were a natural home for Elvenkind.

Not so for _yrch_. Their foul feet were heavy and thick, made for breaking and crushing, not skipping lightly over delicate branches. Yet now, contrary to all reason and history, there were _yrch _climbing through the trees.

Merilgais grimaced and reached back to unnecessarily adjust the glaive slung across her back. It hung there as securely and properly as when she had first mounted their treetop roads, but that was the problem: Merilgais wanted to draw her weapon and send it slashing out at the enemy. She wanted to draw it _now_. The idea of those foul creatures in the trees of Greenwood, in _her _trees, grated on the steely-eyed warrior. It made her skin crawl, seeing the evidence of their heavy passage through the branches, thinking of them swinging gracelessly through the greenery that was her home. Her fingers itched to grasp her weapon and send them all plummeting broken to the ground.

But instead she followed orders and did naught but follow the _yrch_. They moved swiftly in the trees, although not so swiftly as the Elves, so Merilgais and her fellow warriors had to be careful not to go too fast and overtake their quarry, even with their heavy head start. It would never do to find themselves pinned between the main force of _yrch _and whatever number of their company the creatures would no doubt leave to trail behind and guard their backs. That was the problem when you were stealthier and quicker than your enemy: you might well pass their rear guard by and emerge suddenly in the main body of their army.

Merilgais had do doubt, of course, that she and her companions could easily dispatch that force, here in the treetops that were natural home for them and tricky, treacherous paths for their enemy. The _yrch _were graceless; the broken branches and scoured bark that marked the trail the Elves followed were proof enough of that. Whatever could have possessed the creatures to get up into the trees in the first place? Perhaps if they had been planning to ambush Men or Dwarves it might seem sensible to send a few _yrch _into the leafy branches to fall on their targets from above; but _Elves?_ No one ambushed Elves from tree level. It just didn't happen.

Yet these _yrch _had tried it, or had tried something, at any rate, that had put them up in the trees that they had no business climbing through. And that was why Merilgais and the other warriors followed slow and silent rather than charging through the branches and dealing out death and bloody steel to the quarry they tracked through the still night: they wanted to know what, and why. They wanted to know the reason behind this strange new behavior; strange new ideas in the minds of _yrch _made for poor news indeed, and _Aran _Thranduil and his loyal _gon _Tiraran had insisted on _answers _rather than on slaughter.

Merilgais knew they were sensible and right, but she was still annoyed.

The warrior assuaged her disgruntlement by imagining how pitiful and helpless the _yrch _would be when at last it was time for the Elves to show them what it meant to be true tree-climbers and leaf-walkers. It was a good image. In the leafy darkness of Greenwood's dense trees, Merilgais smiled.

... ... ...

The snows had finished falling and left Imladris tucked within a glimmering white blanket. It was lightly marred by the tracks of birds and other forest creatures but the footsteps of Elves left no sign on the icy white surface. The hooves of horses did, however, and a large track burst through the enshrouding whiteness as Gildor Inglorion and his mount struggled into the protected valley with reckless haste.

He had, of course, been spotted by scouts and guards along the path, and those within were already bustling preparations for his unexpected and strangely lonesome arrival. He had not the breath with which to shout assurances and so could only hope that none would panic unduly about the fate of those he had left behind—left behind, but left unharmed, as well. It would never do to grieve his fellows unduly; as far as Gildor Inglorion knew, all his comrades were still unharmed and there was yet no proof for need of tears.

Still, anxious faces were beginning to gather in a crowd along the balconies and gardens as Gildor pulled his trembling mount at last to a stop. None were more impatient for news than the daughter of Imladris's Lord. Arwen fair flew down the steps of the Last Homely House, all but skidding to a stop in the courtyard. She clutched the horse's mane and stared up at Gildor with eyes dark with worry. "What news?" the young Elf-maid asked.

Gildor slid from his horse, both he and his mount panting with exhaustion. Others rushed out to groom the tired, steaming horse and led it away to the stables with lingering glances of curiosity over their shoulders. They knew that all of Imladris would have the news soon enough, but waiting was hard. Gildor glanced down at Arwen, reluctant to speak bluntly in front of the young elf-maid, but unable to offer false assurance.

"Very little, I am afraid," he replied at last, his voice a hoarse whisper. Bronsell was suddenly there with them, supporting the tired Elf on one side while Arwen took the other. Together the two ellith helped him up the steps and into the Homely House where Celebrían was waiting. The Lady of Imladris knew better than to interfere with Healers and so, despite her desperate curiosity, she stepped aside and let them pass without a word. She trailed behind the trio, motioning for restorative food and drink to be brought for the exhausted Gildor.

The Elf Lord turned, as if he would have stopped and spoken to Celebrían, but Bronsell would not allow it. He could make his report to the Lady once he was seated and the Healer could assure herself that he was hiding no injuries to his person.

If it took more Elves than should have been necessary to carry the sustenance Gildor required, no one pointed it out. Everyone was anxious to hear his words, and all those who could find excuse to join him in the chambers Bronsell selected did so. With a warning glare at Celebrían to keep the Lady in her place, Bronsell insisted that Gildor take the time to drink a full goblet of warm cider before she would permit any questions or answers.

When the Elf set the now-empty goblet down on the side table by his chair, though, Celebrían's control and patience could bear no more. "Please," she burst out, "what news of my sons?"

Gildor shook his head. "None," he said, his voice stronger. "None of any certitude, at least," he amended.

Celebrían sat carefully in a chair across from the tired Elf. She seemed calm, save for the worry in her eyes and the nearly bone-crushing grip of her clenched, white hands. Worry, by contrast, radiated freely from Arwen's small face and wide grey eyes. She had not left Gildor's side, ignoring Bronsell's half-hearted efforts to brush her away. With the twins for brothers, Arwen had become quite adept in ignoring the orders of Healers to remove herself when it was unnecessary. "Tell us," Arwen said, her voice a firm command that betrayed none of the trembling the young elleth tried to hide by clasping her hands tightly on the arm of Gildor's chair.

Inglorion glanced at Celebrían; she nodded. Whatever he had to say, they would not spare Arwen the news. Celebrían knew that her daughter would have learned it soon enough anyway, and besides, she had a right to know whatever the truth was, even if it should prove to be the worst.

Gildor sighed. "We found their trail," he said slowly, "and followed it to…to the Pass of Caradhras." He tried to speak casually, tried to disguise the threat of Cruel Redhorn Peak from young Arwen, but he might as well have been trying to hide the color of the sky. Between Glorfindel's stories, Erestor's cautionary lectures, and the twins' schemes and tales, there was not a danger within one hundred leagues* of Imladris that Arwen did not know about.

As if on cue, Erestor chose that moment to burst into the room, the advisor looking somewhat disheveled—for him. Erestor at his most flustered was still more unruffled than most Elves could manage on their calmest days. He bowed lightly to Celebrían, tucking ink-stained fingers inside his long sleeves. He had clearly been working busily, but for whatever news Gildor Inglorion might bring, even Erestor would put aside the doubtless vital task he had been enmeshed in, and which nothing less than a full company of invading orcs could have torn him away from otherwise.

"My Lady, lords," Erestor said politely, "pray forgive the intrusion. I was but—"

Celebrían, in evidence of her desperation, cut Erestor off with an uncharacteristically curt gesture. The councilor blinked then gracefully stepped to the Lady's side, whatever he had been meaning to say discarded. Celebrían barely spared him a glance. "My Lord Gildor, please," she said, "I pray you continue."

Gildor nodded hurriedly. "I fear I can tell you little to settle your hearts, one way or the other," he said apologetically. "I truly know nothing of the children's fate, save that they more than likely passed through Caradhras. I am afraid that it was at that point that I was sent back to you, my Lady, because while on the Pass we were beset by orcs."

"I knew it," Erestor muttered. Arwen shushed him, her unblinking eyes fixed on Gildor.

Gildor decided to reserve the part about Glorfindel being the one to warn them in time to prepare for the ambush and turn it on its head; he would be telling this tale, he knew, many times yet tonight, and details could be inserted into the later tellings. Celebrían wanted only the important bits and, furthermore, Gildor Inglorion had no desire to draw any of the wrath that Erestor usually reserved for Glorfindel onto his own head by speaking of his kinsman's alertness of sense or battle strategy. "We dispatched them handily enough, never fear, without grave hurt to any of our own, yet my lord would not leave Imladris ignorant and unprepared in light of this possible threat."

Erestor definitely looked smug. Gildor had no desire to be Glorfindel when he returned to face the scornful welcome of an advisor proven right in his cautions.

Celebrían nodded wisely. "Elrond and the others continued to follow the children?"

"With all possible haste," Gildor replied fervently. "They will find them, my lady, never fear. I wish only that I could have gone with them, yet as my lord wished this news to arrive with all possible speed…" He shrugged, caught in the miserable trap that was sense and duty.

Celebrían stood. "And valuable news it was. Your haste is indeed appreciated Gildor Inglorion," she said. "Rest now, for while there is much to do, your part is now to recover yourself. I thank you for your pains."

Gildor shook his head, trying to politely refuse her thanks; he had done nothing that any other would not have, merely carried word of possible threat back to those who guarded his own home, and abandoned his comrades to danger they would face without him on top of that. But he had no time to speak; already Celebrían was sweeping from the room and Bronsell stepped forward to force him to, now that he had given his dire news, eat and drink properly. Gildor submitted meekly; one did not defy Healers in the halls of Imladris.

Celebrían stepped out into the hallway followed closely by her daughter and by Erestor. She turned to the nearest Elf of the group who had finagled their way inside to hear Gildor's words—Asealass—and asked her to bring the captain of Imladris's scouts and guards to the study with all speed. The Elf-maid left at a quick trot in the other direction as Celebrían set off for the study. She glanced over her shoulder and caught Lindtulin's eye before the young healer could hurry away to spread Gildor's words. "We may have need of bandages and healing salves," Celebrían told him. "Please make certain that our stores will be adequate to the task." Lindtulin, too, hurried away, motioning for others to assist and accompany him. He had more than enough volunteers; everyone wanted to learn second-hand what they had not been able to hear themselves from tired Gildor's lips. Her third command was directed at a young Elf who often joined the Dúnedain on their patrols; he was to get a message to they and their leader as quickly as possible. If there were indeed orcs skulking about Imladris, the Edain would need to know as much as the Eldar.

Celebrían paused, Erestor and Arwen still at her heels, when she came to the corner that crossed the Great Hall. She wanted to continue directly to the study where she could look over maps and lists and talk with those she would need to seek counsel from and give orders to, but everyone who had not seen Gildor ride in would by now have heard the news of his return. All would be worried and fretting; they deserved to know what there was to fret about, and what there wasn't.

She did not bother to sigh; complaints did not negate duty to her people. Celebrían stepped into the hall where already, without her summoning them hence, many had gathered. They wanted news and knew just as well as Celebrían did that this was where she would come to share it.

The Elf Lady hardly needed to raise her hands; all conversation faded as soon as they saw her. "My friends," she said, her gentle voice pitched to carry firmly around the large room, her face calm and reassuring, "Gildor Inglorion is well. So, too, are those who set out with him, or were at least when from their company he parted." Not for the first time Celebrían wished that she had her mother's gift for scrying. "The news he brings us was not of their fate, nor those whom they set out to find." Celebrían paused a moment; it would never do to allow her voice to waver. "Rather he brings warning for our own sakes, for our searchers found orcs where no orcs should be. It may be that there are others close by, and this possibility we must make haste to ascertain—and, if true, we must make haste to remedy this unacceptable situation." She could tell that her grey eyes were cold and hard; so too were those of the Elves who looked back at her. None in Imladris had any love for orcs.

"I would ask your assistance," Celebrían continued. There were nods even before she explained. "I shall be organizing our efforts promptly, but I will need volunteers to do the seeking and if necessary, the slaying of our enemy. Those who would join in this task, prepare yourselves and then wait here for instruction." There was the sensation of murmuring running through the hall, though none would speak and interrupt the Lady. She was the image of regal elegance, pale and strong with ice in her eyes. Her silver hair gleamed in the torchlight of the hall like eldritch fire above the long dark velvet of her robes. Her gaze took in all the watching Elves.

"Those of you better suited to healing, please seek Lindtulin in the storerooms of medicine. While I hope we shall have no need of wound-tending, I would not see us unprepared." Others nodded, some already rolling up their sleeves. Everyone in Imladris—at least everyone in the great hall—was eager to get to their tasks. Near the front of the room she spotted a plaintive figure who was, clearly, wishing that he had skills that would be of more use. "Lindir," she caught his eye, "do take some others who are fleet of foot and swift of tongue, and make certain that no one in Imladris remains ignorant of what has passed, and what might come to pass." He nodded quick assent and Celebrían turned away again to scan the hall. Uniformly determined faces and steely eyes met her gaze.

"All of us may yet be called on to stand to our home's defense," Celebrían said quietly. She knew that everyone could hear her words; rarely had silence sounded so _attentive _as that which faced her now. "I would have no one caught unprepared. Travel outside these halls not alone," she cautioned, "and if you have skill in weapons, go not unarmed." She knew few Elves indeed who did not have _some _talent with blade or bow; she herself was a decent hand with a sword, though it had been many a year since she had practiced with anyone but her own children in cheerful play. Still, she would buckle her blade to her waist, and be ready to draw it should the need arise. Arwen, too, would not walk helpless. Celebrían had no wish to see her daughter ever cross blades with a foul orc, but better to have the blade to confront them with than be caught empty-handed in time of trouble.

She nodded at her audience. "I have full faith in all of you," she said firmly, "and no doubts that our light will prevail over whatever the forces of dark might send our way. Imladris will not fall," she promised, and agreement flashed in every eye that was turned her way. "And," Celebrían continued, "we shall rid our lands of any fell creatures foolish enough to challenge us."

The starlight in Celebrían's eyes flashed bright and strong and dangerous. She looked, suddenly, very like her mother. Her smile was tight, and hard, and elegant as an ancient Elvish sword. It was answered with a cheer. Celebrían bowed her head in thanks and acknowledgement, then swept from the hall in a swirl of dark skirts and silver hair. Still trailed by Arwen and Erestor, and now by others whose counsel she valued, Celebrían headed for the study, and the maps and plans and lists that would help her order the defense of Imladris.

Even without Vilya, Celebrían knew, they were strong. Furthermore, Gildor had not said that there _were _orcs nearby; only that there might be. But might was enough. Celebrían would not allow herself to waste thought on the possibility that they might all be worrying for naught; better by far to prepare without need than to be surprised in complacency.

On the way to the study Celebrían paused to give one last order. Her young face gleaming with eager pride, Arwen hurried off to fetch swords for herself and her mother. The Lady of Imladris belted her blade securely at her waist, and another at her daughter's, then led her advisors to the large map of the lands surrounding the Last Homely House. It was time to order their defenses and, perhaps more importantly, their _offense_.

After all, if the orcs were slain in the woods and fields, there would be no need to worry about the valley and those within it. It was time for Imladris to _hunt_.

... ... ...

Elrohir struggled up out of darkness only to find more darkness awaiting him. He thrashed in panic only to receive a sharp buffet across the back of his head. His senses spun the heavy black world around him. When they slowly returned to coherence he realized that there was heavy cloth over his head and that was what obscured his sight. He was also being carried roughly over what felt like a shoulder in rough armor. A foul smell reached his nostrils though the shrouding cloth and fear churned with nausea in his gut.

_Orcs_. He was being born away captive by orcs. He twisted and writhed, trying to break free of his fetters, but he was securely bound and held by a thick arm slung across his middle. He kicked out with his lightly booted feet and the creature bearing him grunted and responded by smacking him again. Elrohir tasted blood in his mouth. He shivered, cold from something more than the winter chill.

He was a captive of orcs.

"Elladan!" he shouted, though his voice was muffled.

There was no response. He called for his brother and received no answer. Where was his brother? Had he escaped? Or—

No. Elrohir would not allow himself to entertain an "or." If there was an _or_ he would feel it, he would know. There was no _or_.

"Elladan!" he shouted again. One of the orcs said something in a harsh tongue that Elrohir did not recognize. The words sent cold and clammy fingers gliding up his spine and he shuddered. "Elladan! Legolas! Fuiniel! _Elladan!_ Brother, can you he—"

Another blow stopped his words. He coughed and spat blood. The air inside his hood was hot and close and he could barely breathe it. He fought to cling to consciousness. Then his bearer moved and he was tossed onto a hard surface. He yelped involuntarily and heard a groan that did not sound orkish.

"Elladan?" he asked quickly. "Brother?"

"No," a small voice said, wavering and weak. "I—it is Legolas. Elrohir?"

"I am here," the Imladris Elf said quickly. Small fingers groped blindly across the stony ground and wrapped themselves tightly around Elrohir's bound hand. Elrohir squeezed back with what reassurance he could. "It will be all right," he whispered softly to the elfling, trying to believe his own words.

Where was Elladan? If his brother had escaped…

He hoped his brother had escaped.

And what of Fuiniel? He had not heard the maiden's voice, and Elrohir had no doubt that if she were nearby and alert, she would not be hard to hear, much as the orcs might wish otherwise. Were he and Legolas alone? And were the others…?

Elrohir turned his thoughts from that dark path. Elladan was fine, had to be fine. _Had_ to be.

"What will we do?" Legolas whispered.

"We will be strong," said Elrohir, "and we will make these foul creatures regret laying their soiled hands upon us, this I promise you."

"I believe you," said Legolas.

Elrohir grimaced, and wished that he were so certain.

"No talking!" a harsh voice interrupted. It was followed by a heavy kick to Elrohir's side. He gasped for breath.

As soon as he got it back, he disobeyed. "My friend," he said casually, "I could swear that I just heard a warg speak. I must be mistaken, for they have not such wit, but my nose assures me it is warg."

Elrohir received another kick but this time he was braced for it and did not lose quite as much of the air in his lungs as he had at the last. "Ah," he gasped, "perhaps I am wrong after all. The speaker, I must admit upon reflection, did not sound as though he possessed the intelligence common to wargs."

An orc said something in its own harsh speech and Elrohir was, for a moment, grateful for the hood that hid his face and the wince that passed across it. "I confess, I am quite at a loss as to what it was that spoke," he continued cheerily. "I can think of no beast capable of speech that possesses such a deficient brain as our speaker must have. I admit, there are creatures that I have not—"

Rough hands dragged Elrohir away from the ground and from Legolas's clutching fingers. He struggled and lashed out, kicking and punching as best he could with his hands tied together, but it was no avail; he was outnumbered, and they were strong. The hood was wrenched from his face and Elrohir saw, for a moment, a dim hollow in the earth that might be called a cave if one were feeling generous in regards to size. It was crowded heavily with orcs. Sunlight glowed faintly at the far end of the earthy crevasse and the orcs pressed close against one another to avoid it.

There were at least twenty of the foul creatures between the elflings and the exit, but Elrohir's spirits were lightened by what he saw.

Next to Legolas, his face shrouded by another rough sack, lay his brother. He lay still and silent upon the ground but in the brief glimpse Elrohir was afforded he could see that Elladan was breathing. Tension and fear fled the young Elf and he found that he, too, could again breath freely. His brother lived.

Then a foul-tasting gag was shoved in his mouth and he bitterly regretted trying to bite the orc that put it there, for the taste of that was even fouler. The dark hood was shoved down upon his face once more and Elrohir was cast back to the ground. He writhed and yelled but his voice was muffled and unintelligible and his actions useless. There was naught he could do.

Tired by his struggles and still reeling from the ache in his skull, Elrohir fell back limply upon the cold stone ground. He lay there panting and hating the orcs. Small fingers again found his own and Elrohir clung to Legolas's hand for his own comfort as much as the elfling's. He felt cold and very alone and frightened.

He so dearly wanted his naneth.

Gentle, wise Celebrían with her moonlight hair and soft hands; never would Elrohir have wished his lady-mother in such a place as this, but still he desired her presence with him now. A mother, soft and kind and more delicately beautiful than the moon itself; long-haired and bright-eyed and glowing with love.

He wondered, not for the first time, how Legolas could bear the loss of his own mother. Who could the little prince cling to now in his hopes in this dark place? For Elrohir, the thought of his graceful mother was enough to bring a little bit of light into the enshrouding dark. Celebrían, he knew, could have made this all right—somehow.

She was his mother. That was what she did, simply by virtue of being her.

But she was not here, and they were alone. He held the little prince's hand tightly and tried not to wonder why there were only three of them in this small cave and what disaster had happened that Fuiniel was not with them now.

That led to another _or_, and Elrohir did not wish to think of those.

... ... ...

Thranduil strode to the field of battle, and gasps and whispers ran through their allies. It was not the sight of the young Elven king that so shocked them, however; rather, it was that of one of the two Elven warriors flanking Greenwood's lord. To his right walked Tiraran, captain of the remnants of their army, grim and pale. But to Thranduil's left strode the head of his personal guard and second-_gon_ of their army, Angmeril. It seemed a horrible breach of decency that an Elven maid should have to endure such slaughter as they were steeped in, but that was not what sent shivers of shock racing through the tired camp. The past four years of siege had given everyone in this desperate alliance more than enough time to become used to the tragic circumstances that made warriors out of those who should be far from filth and battle.

It was, rather, her strange new appearance that distressed them. Angmeril was as ash-stained and battered as any warrior among the camp, and she bore the scratches of battle on her light leather armor as well as on her flesh. Her grey eyes were iron-cold and hard, and the weapons that hung at her belt were battered with use. But her soft oaken hair was no longer matted with the remnants of dried black blood that she could never quite comb free of her braids; rather, she herself was now free of the braids.

Her sharply pointed ears protruded like short daggers from pale brown hair that had been sliced off at her chin. Her hair was short as any mortal lad's now, although what little there was left of it was indeed clean of blood.

Angmeril rolled sharp grey eyes once, and then ignored them all. It was far too much hassle trying to drag _yrch _blood out of her hair; the Elven warrior fought close to her foes, sliding in and gutting them with either sword or knife, and while she could avoid their blades easily enough, all too often she was caught by the spray of blood she unleashed. She did not possess the gift her sister seemed to have for lunging into the thickest part of the fray, and dancing out with a grin and a form barely spattered by grime. And Gilthawen had long ago departed for the Halls of Mandos, and could no longer be disappointed by her un-maidenly eldest daughter. Angmeril's world had shrunk to this shadow-drenched pit of carnage, and there was no room there for the frivolities of elegant dresses and luxurious locks. Her king did not need her as a pretty bauble for his court; he needed a _warrior_.

And warrior now was all Angmeril was. There was neither future nor past in her cold grey eyes, but only the promise of swift death to all who marched with the Enemy, and any who dared threaten her _aralor. _Thranduil had been neither shocked nor appalled by her shortened locks; beyond that, Angmeril cared not what any said or thought. Even Tiraran seemed to feel that chopping it off had been an affront, as if by doing so she had somehow allowed the _yrch _to claim a victory over her spirit.

He didn't understand. This had nothing to do with her spirits being worn down by time and battle and sorrow and death and shadow; she was no more sickened by the smell of _yrch _blood in her nose than she had been when the fighting began. In truth, she was growing used to the foul odor, and hardly noticed it. The crawling feeling it left on her skin was so much a part of life, she wondered if feeling clean now might perhaps somehow be even more uncomfortable.

It just took long enough to get her weapons clean of this filth, she had no time to waste trying to clean her hair. Her time belonged to Thranduil, and he needed her at his side. How Tiraran managed, Angmeril did not know; the _gon _was twice as busy as any in Greenwood's shrinking forces yet he always managed to look almost pristine enough to be a Noldor Lord—surely as close to pristine as any of them could get in this land of filth and darkness. Blood still clung to the _gon_, and dust and soot and the clawing, creeping Shadow, but no more than it did to any in their camp. No more than it did to Thranduil himself.

Their poor _aralor _was all they had left, but he had now _nothing_. Oropher dead, hope long since dead, and all that remained of Greenwood depending solely on him. Thranduil alone supported their people now, and while he was better than hope, it was a heavy burden upon the young king she served. Angmeril had no time to worry about her appearance; she was too busy worrying for her _aralor._

Who was unamused by Glorfindel gawking at his _gon_'s new hairstyle. Thranduil dealt the twice-born a frown that would have shriveled uruks where they stood, but the child-ancient was unfazed, and fell into step with them as they swept along to the front lines. Angmeril did not mind; Glorfindel's honest shock was refreshing after the muttered whispers and hurriedly averted gazes of their allies. One would think they had never seen the back of a maiden's neck before.

Angmeril glanced first at Thranduil to make certain that her king would need no assistance, then turned to the short Balrog-slayer with a slight grin. "Yes, my lord? Is there anything I can do for you?"

Glorfindel closed his mouth, which instantly fell into a smile. "You look ridiculous."

She blinked, torn between frowning and laughing, and settled somewhere in between. "And you look as if you ought to be heading back to the nursery," she told him, "so you should perhaps not comment so on the appearances of others."

The Gondolin lord laughed. "You make a very valid point, my lady."

"Then you shall endeavor swiftly to find yourself a nursery?" she asked sweetly.

Glorfindel smirked. "Nay, I think I shall follow you. I expect the expressions on the faces of Gil-galad, Elrond, and our Gondorian allies will be vastly entertaining when they spot your abbreviated locks."

"Suit yourself," Angmeril said with a shrug. She cared no more for the other so-called leaders of this alliance than did her lord. She had been at Thranduil's side the day Oropher fell, and only her duty to the then-prince had kept her from drawing blade and hacking her way through their allies to reach Greenwood's besieged warriors. She laid at the feet of smug Gil-galad the deaths of their fellows, their king, and her own mother; she did not care what the Noldorian lords thought of her savage new haircut. Let the kinslayers sing of fair maidens with gentle voices and sweet eyes of starlight; this was war, and there was no time for delicate flowers.

If Angmeril was a flower, she was one forged of iron.

And so, steely-eyed, she glared at the noble leaders of the alliance as they tried not to gape at Thranduil's guard while she stood at her lord's side for the hurried discussion of tactics and strategy; it took only moments, they did not bother to wait for Elendil to join them, but launched quickly towards the field. The _yrch_ were sallying forth from the depths of Sauron's fortress, and this was not the time for talk, but rather for battle. The discussion was brief, and then the lords scattered to their respective forces to meet the Enemy. Glorfindel grinned like the child his eyes said he wasn't, and saluted her with a long, curved blade. Angmeril took off running across the field, following Tiraran and their indomitable _aralor. _

She drew her long sword and knife from her belt and held them loosely, points angled down, but ready to swing into battle, and stood behind her king. They waited, Greenwood's warriors, at the edge of the lines, ready to charge but also ready merely to stand and let the _yrch _break upon their arrows and their blades. The Enemy was deceitful, but their Elven eyes were sharp.

So were their weapons. A shining sliver of steel flashed past Angmeril's side as a long, blade-tipped stick swung out beyond her to point in the distance. Merilgais did not have to speak; her long, unwieldy weapon did it for her, and all eyes turned to look where Angmeril's sister indicated. _Yrch_, trying to crawl across the side of the mountainous, barren ground, and sneak to the back of their lines. Foolish and wasteful, but the Greenwood Elves did not complain about poor strategy on the part of their enemy.

They looked to their _aralor, _and Thranduil swung his sword, and they charged. Arrows flew ahead of them, and _yrch_ fell in screaming, gurgling piles of black flesh and blacker blood. Angmeril ran at her king's side, her eyes scanning for any threat that would dare touch Thranduil, her blades up and ready and gleaming. Her eyes shone just as sharp and merciless as her weapons, and neither flickered when they met the _yrch_ charge. Black blood splattered across her face, and Angmeril smiled grimly. Slicing her hair off had _definitely _been the right decision.

She heard her sister's yell and a _whooshing _sound followed by a wet _thwack _that meant one _orch_ had just learned that Merilgais's strange armament was not as awkward as it looked. She heard Tiraran grunt, and a _squelching _noise, and an _orch_ tumbled, clutching where its guts used to be. She stepped over the writhing body without noticing. The clash of metal on metal on flesh filled the air, which was rent by screams and yells and curses and weeping. Hot ash choked their breath and stung their eyes. Black blood and red mingled in the sodden dirt, and coated the warriors where they fought.

Angmeril had eyes for none of it. She was Thranduil's guard, and her world extended no further from him than the nearest _orch_ that meant to cause him harm. Nothing else mattered but the gleaming golden figure of their lord, her king, the _Aralor. _

... ... ...

Fuiniel paused to re-tie the bandage over her ribs. Balancing herself comfortably on a large branch, she carefully scanned the area first; the only sign of enemies she could find was the trail of broken plant life she had been following ever since she regained consciousness. Secure in her solitude, the girl pulled out one of the two long white knives she now carried and cut a fresh piece from her skirt and went ahead and re-bandaged her skull as well. It still ached and, every now and then, a little blood trickled down the side of her face. She wasn't worried—she would not allow herself to worry. After all, head wounds, she knew, always bled overmuch. It did not mean that the cut itself was a deep one; it had not felt bad, when she had gingerly explored it with her fingers earlier.

A fresh bandage would help. Fuiniel smiled humorlessly. It was a good thing she had left Imladris with new skirts. Already when she moved the dark brown leggings she wore underneath could be seen above her soft boots. It would never do to run out of skirt before she found her stolen companions; what if they needed bandaging, as well? Fuiniel had no doubt that they would be injured, although she did not allow herself to dwell on it. They would not have allowed themselves to be taken captive, Fuiniel knew, if they were hale enough to prevent it. Still, surely they could not be that badly hurt, or the _yrch_ would have left them for dead as they had her.

That had been a mistake. Fuiniel knew that when you leave someone for dead, you had better make certain—one way or the other—that they really _are _dead before you walk away. In the case of _yrch_ she had found that a swift, deep cut through the throat worked best. She was of course not going to complain that the creatures were stupid; it was the only thing about them she liked, really.

But she surely was going to make certain that they regretted it.

Fuiniel dusted off her shortened and now ragged-edged skirts and stood up. She bit her lip, hard, to fight the spinning in her head. It was time to get moving; there were people counting on her. _Ernil _Legolas was counting on her.

Fuiniel wasn't going to let him—to let any of them—down.

And she certainly wasn't going to let the _yrch _escape.

* * *

*_One hundred leagues would be equal to approximately 300 miles, according to the _Unfinished Tales, _where it states, "in Númenórean reckoning [a league] was very nearly three of our miles." The league itself, of course, being a pretty crappily inconsistent measure of distance that can range from 2.4 to 4.6 miles at any given point in the history of its usage, I went with Tolkien's _UT_ for the simple reason of this being Middle-earth, so his system of measurement automatically trumps all others._


	40. Piercing the Shadows

_Apologies for the interminable delay. I can't actually believe it's been as long as it has...sheesh. Sorry. I do promise, though, that lengthy as the wait between chapter updates will no doubt continue to be, I _will_ finish this story (and _Ostad_, although since this one is drawing near to the end, I'm focusing on it first) eventually!_

* * *

**Chapter Forty: Piercing the Shadows**

Within the shrouding darkness of dank caves buried deep within Greenwood Forest a hunched, broken figure wrapped in thick, fraying robes waited with grim patience. The nearby cluster of orkish scouts fidgeted anxiously. Their comrades were taking long enough to bring the prize they had promised that their master was growing impatient, and the scouts knew that if their fellows did not make haste it would be their own hides that suffered the twisted figure's displeasure.

At last the hollow tunnels rang with scuffling and the muffled commotion of prisoners being dragged to their fate. The robed figure rose jerkily and the waiting _yrch _drew back.

Others of their number came in now, pulling with them three young Elves. All three were decorated with blood both red and black yet even beneath the filth and grime it was clear that the two larger Elves were of the same cloth and cut while the smaller one was a decidedly different creature. The two older Elves—and they could have gone either way, as full-grown Elves or elflings still; it was impossible to say upon a passing glance—were by far the noisier, roundly cursing the _yrch_ that dragged them in languages both known and unfamiliar to the twisted figure who watched them. All three struggled fiercely despite their injuries, although one of the dark-haired boys was hampered by an arm that was clearly broken and hung limp in an _orch_'s untender grasp.

It was the smaller one upon whom their dark captor's attention was fastened, however. His young face was streaked with tears yet a fierce wrath burned in his sharp blue eyes. They were eyes familiar to the one who waited; eyes and hair and features, all familiar and all hated. The small elfling was a lesser copy of his father, he whom the _yrch_ called _gold-head-slaughter-son_ in their foul tongue.

A smile at last shaped the broken lips beneath the heavy cloak. A cruelly twisted hand reached out from the tangled folds towards the angry young elf-child, towards those ice-blue eyes.

"_Haryalyë holwë nauco!_" shouted the dark-haired Elf without the broken limb and the twisted hand shot back within its folds of filthy cloth. Eyes hidden in the depths of a frayed hood swiveled to the angry, haughty-featured face of proud cheekbones, bright eyes, and dark hair. _The speech of the kinslayers!_

Shattered hands darted out and fastened in the speaker's bloodied tunic. "What dare you say?" the heavily robed creature demanded in a hiss of rage, its own words spoken in Sindarin and unintelligible to its _yrch_, but it was not speaking to them. They could hear the anger in its tone and that was enough to make them to draw back.

The Elf met its eyes firmly then spat in its face. The Elf continued speaking in the foul language, but while the recoiling, heavily robed figure could recognize Quenya, it could not understand it. It stepped forward and smacked the Elf across the mouth. The boy spat blood but tilted his chin proudly.

"Elrohir!" cried the one with the broken arm, trying to wrench free from the _yrch_ holding him.

"I am fine, brother," the one named Elrohir said quietly to the other, his words Sindarin this time, as if that were the native tongue to which he turned instinctively to reassure the other. The young Elf drew himself up as best he could and stared at their captor as if he would summon the very stars of the sky with the force of his glare. "I am Elrohir of Imladris," he said firmly, blood seeping from his split lip, "son of Elrond and Celebrían and I say to you now that you assault us at your peril, _nil-torogrim_."

The other dark-haired Elf—the brother—grinned, ceasing for a moment to struggle against his _yrch_ captors to glance over and nod approvingly. "Well said," he murmured, and it was clear that his compliment did not refer to the polite introduction but to the ending taunt.

There was a rough, heavy rasp of fabric. The hunched and hooded figure stepped forward to the boy who named himself Elrohir and leaned over, staring deep into its captive's face. "Son of Elrond?" it repeated in an incredulous whisper, and the boy's proud defiance faltered when he saw what lay beneath that hood.

"You…you have the face of…but you are Elf-kind!" he whispered haltingly. Confusion swam across the fair Noldorian features and the stars fled his eyes. He looked around at the _yrch_ and then back at their master. He shuddered and his face was shadowed.

The other two captives said nothing but their eyes were wide.

The twisted, broken husk of what had once been an Elf drew back. It stared at the brothers, and at the small form of Thranduil's son, and its heart was cold and hard.

"Tie them!" it spat at the _yrch _in their own Black speech. The children struggled and shouted and their cries echoes off the dank, dark walls of the _yrch_-infested caves beneath the earth of Greenwood and their captor watched and thought of long ago things and darker days than this and deep within the shroud of its heavy hood its eyes flamed with endless hatred.

... ... ...

Seven long years of siege had ended suddenly and bloodily, with fire and despair rained down upon the bedraggled hosts of the Last Alliance. First came darkness, then trolls, then the swarm of orcs. Then the fouler things: the Uruks, the Olog-Hai, and the First Orcs, who caused all the Eldar that saw their ruined forms to tremble from the horror. But Sauron twisted Men as well as Elves, and his Black Númenóreans held sorcery in their corrupted fists, sorcery that they unleashed upon the armies of the Alliance in dark clouds and hot lights.

Then the cold and the Nazgûl that carried it, led by their Wraithlord Witch King, and the fell voice of the Mouth that was so narrowly silenced by Gil-galad's Herald, and then the treachery of the White Mountain folk, and the long retreat up Orodruin itself. And so many were already lost, already fallen, to the Ring and those it wielded, and then Sauron himself had walked the field of battle.

And after seven years of siege were seven days of fighting, and of dying.

And Elves and Men and Orcs fell alike to the carnage of that battle on the plains of Gorgoroth and the slopes of Orodruin now called Mount Doom, and no song could give voice to the losses of those seven days and the long seven years before.

But of all the foul fates dealt out in the final days of the Last Alliance, there were perhaps none so evil as those that passed unseen by Elves or Men. There were those who fell in Shadow, unmarked and unnoticed, and their fall was long indeed.

... ... ...

The twisted figure had had a name once, and a family, and a face unmarred by time. From his eyes had shone stars and in his laughter there was sunlight and joy. His step had been light and quick, his movements graceful, his back unbowed. He had been an Elf once, one of the Woodland Folk.

Now he was broken and bent and wore Shadow upon his brow and the stars that once filled his eyes were long extinguished. His gaze was cold and harsh and his voice a bitter rasp. He lurched and shuffled when he walked and he was never not in pain. In his _fëa _there was only darkness and a long-nursed, gnawing hate. The only light in his face was the flickering candle of rage and betrayal that had carried him staggering through the long, dark years since his Fall. There was nothing left of Elvenkind within him, save for the shattered husk of his appearance, a shroud of memory still clinging to his hunched and twisted form.

Something cold and skittering crawled across the minds of the three elflings when they looked upon the ruin of their once-Elven captor. Elladan drew his broken arm in close against his side, but the aching pain of his wound was nothing compared to that of his _fëa_. Elrohir's fingers were clenched tightly enough to leave sharp fingernail impressions in his palms and he had his jaw shut just as firmly as if afraid of what might escape if he relaxed—perhaps an embarrassingly tangible gut-rejection of what he saw, or perhaps merely screams. Legolas was dangerously pale and his skin had a waxy sheen as though their captor were a contagion that had settled in his heart.

None of the three boys had ever encountered such a perversion of nature as the broken creature in front of them. They had all heard the stories of the origin of the first orcs: Elves taken and tortured and twisted by the Dark Lord and drowned in Shadow until nothing of their light remained. But this was no orc generations removed from the original sin; this was something that had been born an Elf and now was not.

"Brother," Elladan whispered, but Elrohir shook his head mutely; for once in his life, he could not speak and did not desire to. Elladan fell into miserable silence and tried to likewise quiet the screaming in his head. He made himself focus on the pain in his arm which did but little to distract him. If they had been unbound he or his brother could have seen to the injury; with Elrond _Peredhel _for a father, both brothers were well-versed in the rudiments of minor healing. Now Elladan found himself almost grateful for the restraints preventing him from finding respite; the physical pain helped blunt the horrors of his eyes.

Their captor was once more an anonymously shrouded bundle of frayed and stained cloth, but they knew now what hid beneath those robes and it was something that could never be forgotten. He stared at them in silence, his eyes two hot points of dark rage gleaming from the depths of his shadowing hood. The elflings stared back, unable to wrench their gaze away from the monstrous evil that stood now before them.

Legolas felt colder inside now than he had when trapped in the snow. He forced his chin up stiffly, determined to act the proud son of Thranduil, unbowed even in the face of horrors. His father would not have flinched from the sight before them, Legolas knew; he would do no less. "Why do you keep us here?" he demanded, hoping that his voice would not quaver.

Their twisted captor did not reply immediately. When at last he did, it was with only one word, hissed sharply from the depths of his robes: "Vengeance," he said.

"Vengeance?" asked Elrohir, pulled from his silence by the courage of the young prince and by his own curiosity. "But we have done naught to you," he insisted. "We do not even know you."

"Nor do we wish to," Elladan muttered.

"You do not," the once-Elf concurred, "but your fathers once did."

The twins and Legolas exchanged a glance. Elladan elected himself their speaker: "Forgive my saying so," he began diplomatically, "but you do not seem the sort to be on familiar terms with my father nor, I suspect, with _Aran _Thranduil."

Their captor blinked, then laughed: a high, harsh, shrill sound, thready and wavering, and it shattered coldly on the stone walls of their dank prison. The broken echoes crawled through the winding tunnels and doubled back so that it sounded as if a whole host of shadow-ghosts laughed with him. It was the sound of nightmares made real and dark pasts come home to rot.

... ... ...

Gil-galad's herald followed him. Engwalyg silently cursed the Noldor. Could they not be left in peace? He would have thought that the High King's reception at the hands of Angmeril but three days past would have been enough to teach even the haughty Noldorians to keep their distance from the Greenwood Elves and their grief. But one thing Engwalyg had learned in these years of alliance with the kinslayers was that for all their love of discourse and study the only counsel they took was their own.

At length resigning himself to the truth that the fastest way to get rid of the High King's pet would be to hear him out, Engwalyg ceased his pretense of preoccupied deafness. He stopped and turned and scowled at the herald. "What is it you want?" he asked shortly.

Elrond frowned for a moment then smoothed his face to diplomatic neutrality. "A moment of your time only," he said. Engwalyg knew he was lying. It was _never_ only a moment.

The Greenwood Elf folded his arms, the very picture of impatient forbearance. "Then speak quickly," he demanded. "I have not much to spare."

The herald drew himself up, the better no doubt to look down haughtily upon the Woodland Elf. "We have only of late learned of your prince's restructuring of the—"

"My king," Engwalyg interrupted.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Thranduil is no longer my prince, but my king," Engwalyg said. _Since your precious High King saw fit to offer noble Oropher and the best of my kin up to the Shadow as a sacrifice to salve your weakness and your empty pride,_ he did not say.

"I apologize," said Elrond, bowing his head. "I fear I have yet to fully accept the grievous loss we have so lately suffered. My tongue betrays my sorrows."

Engwalyg raised a bitter eyebrow but did not speak. He was certain that if he began to answer such a claim he would not stop until he had taken the herald's head from his shoulders—and he was no kinslayer, tempted though of late he was to walk that foul path.

"Your king, then," Elrond continued gracefully. "We have only of late learned of the fashion in which he plans to reorganize the sorely depleted forces he now commands…and I must express my concern."

"I do not believe that _Aran _Thranduil much desires to hear your concerns," Engwalyg replied, barely attempting to restrain his sneer.

Elrond arched an eyebrow. "That is why I come to you rather than to Thranduil himself," he said smoothly.

Engwalyg glowered. "I have no interest in carrying your words to my liege," he said coldly.

"Hear my words 'ere you decide," the herald suggested.

Dislike gleaming in his dark eyes, Engwalyg nodded once, curtly. Better this…_peredhel_ pester him than Thranduil; his newly crowned and grieving king had enough to contend with in these dark days without having to spare the time for Gil-galad's pet to have his say.

"Of course his father's _gon _would now be his," the herald began; "this is only sense, and proper. None would contend the wisdom of retaining Tiraran in his post as your king's commander."

Engwalyg nodded impatiently. Surely the _peredhel _had a point within his honeyed words. If he did not present it soon, he could postulate to the tent walls and barren ground instead. Engwalyg had far more important things to do with his time than listen to the long-winded herald explain Thranduil's obvious wisdom with Noldorian condescension.

"Yet," Elrond continued, "he is no doubt quite understandably overwrought with grief, and it is thus the duty of those close to him to set their counsel against any…missteps he might make while so distracted by his grievous loss."

Engwalyg's scowl deepened dangerously. "Were _my_ liege prone to making missteps," he growled, "there would be plenty of Greenwood's loyal and trustworthy subjects to guard his actions." _We do not need some half-blooded Noldorian windbag poking his nose into our business,_ he continued silently to himself. _Not when we can so clearly see the horrors to which Noldorian leadership has brought us_.

"And in such I have complete faith," said Elrond quickly. "This is why I seek you out, Engwalyg Shadow-Slayer; word has reached me that you are one of the greatest of Greenwood's sons and one of her most loyal and skillful soldiers."

Engwalyg did not know when he had uncrossed his arms to let his hand dangle near the hilt of his long sword. He did know that he did not trust the Noldor, especially when they came armed with flattery on their lips. "Speak your piece," he said harshly.

"You have been ever one of Thranduil's chief guards and closest councilors," Elrond said quickly, his words now blunt and fast; he could no doubt sense that he was losing his audience's patience. "Yet now the maiden Angmeril takes your place at your new king's side."

"Angmeril was Thranduil's _gon_," Engwalyg said flatly. "She still is. Tiraran commands our army." _What remains of it,_ he thought bitterly. "But Angmeril commands my king's personal guard, as she did 'ere this tragedy that has so devastated us and I serve under her orders as I did before."

"But your lord is king of all Greenwood now," Elrond said softly. "And the _elleth _is now more than merely Thranduil's bodyguard; she is second-_gon_ of all your forces." _Such few that remain of them_, Elrond did not say, but Engwalyg could nonetheless hear the unspoken words echo in the bitter wasteland of Mordor. The post Angmeril now took up had until recently been held by her own mother, but now Gilthawen was just one of many green-clad corpses on Mordor's barren fields.

"This is true," said Engwalyg shortly, and made to turn away. He knew all this already, he did not need to hear of his own king's orders from some Noldorian half-breed. He had been among Thranduil's council when their king had restructured the fragments that remained of their people into a coherent albeit much smaller force of war. He had known their bitter new structures and ranks now for two days. The herald spoke nothing that was new. Engwalyg had better things to do than listen to all this again.

"And this seems to you a good strategy?" Elrond asked.

Engwalyg stopped. He turned back, staring darkly at the Noldor through narrowed eyes. "It is my king's strategy," he said shortly. He did not know what the _peredhel_ was trying to get at, but he did not like it.

Elrond nodded, a knowing smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. "I see," he said. Engwalyg resisted the urge to draw his sword. The _peredhel_ practically radiated smug righteousness. "I have often found," Elrond said slowly, "that the best strategies are only arrived at after much discourse with many voices."

"A pity that so many of our allies find themselves deaf to voices that disagree," Engwalyg sneered.

The barb missed its target. Elrond instead nodded agreement. "Ay," he said, "yet that is no reason not to give voice when there is cause to do so." He paused but if he was waiting for Englwayg to add something to the discussion he waited in vain. After a moment he continued. "I believe that this is such cause." Engwalyg crossed his arms, not for a willingness to stay and listen but because no Noldorian _peredhel_ would irritate him so far as to descend to their level and he did not trust his fingers near his sword. Elrond appeared to take it as a sign that he should keep talking. "I would not intrude myself on your king's grief," he said, sorrow shadowing his face, "yet do I know that tragedy shall surely follow tragedy if by grief we let ourselves be made blind to reason."

"Reason?" Engwalyg could not help but echo. So it was 'reason' that led the Noldor to abandon his kinsmen to death and darkness? Give him Greenwood's heart over the Calaquendi's _wisdom_ any day.

"Yes," Elrond agreed, "that is what we need now, cold though such an offering must be in the face of such uncountable sorrows. Thranduil must be counseled wisely regarding his new kingship and the dispersal of his forces, particularly his choice of second-_gon_—it cannot be Angmeril, we both of us know this; should it not rather by yourself, Engwalyg?"

The Greenwood warrior started.

Elrond's smile brimmed with quiet confidence. "My lord Gil-galad and the Lords of Númenór have likewise expressed to me their faith in you," he told the gaping soldier. "We have seen you on the field of battle and can think of none better to help lead Greenwood through these dark days."

"My king has appointed Angmeril," Engwalyg said slowly. He did not know why this _peredhel _was having difficulty understanding. His _aralor _had spoken.

"Yes," said Elrond, "and in his grief, I fear, it is hard to gainsay him; yet should not wisdom be offered now 'ere further tragedy is endured?"

Engwalyg raised an eyebrow "And you would offer this…_wisdom_ to my king?" he asked.

"I would offer what wisdom I can to all and any," Elrond said earnestly, "yet I fear that Thranduil would not hear my words. Thus do I seek you out, Engwalyg, for the sake of the whole of the Alliance and for Greenwood most especially. Ay, for Thranduil's sake do I ask you to speak to him—you know it to be truth, Engwalygy; you are suited for the role far more than the maiden Angmeril, warrior though she is. I come only to ask that you think of your king and act now, despite the shroud of his grief, 'ere more sorrow should compound an already grievous loss."

Engwalyg's frown drew low and dark upon his brow. "I believe _gon _Angmeril has already expressed Greenwood's opinion of Noldorin interference in our affairs," he said coldly, "but if you require a lesson of your own I shall find her sister, for Merilgais I know is much regretful to have not had opportunity to participate herself in such teaching."

Then confusion marred Elrond's features, for he knew not of what Engwalyg spoke. "What lesson is the lady Angmeril to have offered?" he asked. "I have heard naught of any words she has exchanged of late with any of my kinsmen." The _peredhel _looked worried.

Engwalyg laughed to hear it, and his laugh was cold and hollow. "I should be not surprised," he said, "to hear that in his shame your High King has kept secret to himself his learning; no doubt he would find himself embarrassed to share the tale, and perhaps appear not so high-and-mighty after all."

Elrond bristled then with insult, though he knew not as yet at what save for the other's scornful tone and laugh. He frowned heavily. An inkling inconceivable was beginning to steal into his thoughts, although most unwilling he was to allow it.

"Speak plainly," he demanded brusquely, "or not at all."

Engwaly's smile was predatory. "I speak of the blows exchanged of late between my _gon _and your master—or blow, actually, for it took the elleth but a solitary one to fell him," the Greenwood Elf related smugly.

Elrond gaped, his mind in turmoil as he tried to reorder his previously assured assumptions. "You are in jest!" he protested somewhat desperately.

The Greenwood warrior raised a cool eyebrow. "I am not," he said.

Elrond shook his head in helpless silence. The _peredhel _clutched at his scattered thoughts but Engwalyg was in no mood to be patient for the Noldor's sake, and turned once more to walk away. Elrond arrested the Silvan warrior with a hand on his lightly armored shoulder. "Wait," he said, "please." Engwalyg looked down at the restraining hand with revulsion but Elrond paid his reaction no mind, continuing hurriedly, "surely such a—a rash act only serves to illustrate my argument that however doughty a warrior she may be, the elleth is unsuited to command. She has not the—the temperament nor the diplomatic graces necessary for such a vital post. Rather, a warrior such as yourself," Elrond at last faltered under Engwalyg's harsh glare. "Yourself…" he trailed off.

Engwalyg knocked the _peredhel_'s hand from his shoulder as if the touch itself offended him. His face curled into a cold sneer. "Perhaps among your people, herald, such reckless ambition takes precedence to loyalty," he said harshly, "but in Greenwood, we trust and believe in our king, and will follow him without hesitation or thought to our own avarice or advancement." He stepped forward, menacing. The taller Noldor took a step backwards. "But then," Engwalyg said quietly, "we can trust our king."

Elrond's face darkened; the _peredhel_ knew what he was going to say and would have advised against it if the Silvan warrior had given him the chance to speak.

Engwalyg did not. "None of my kindred, you see," he said, his voice a rasping whisper, "ever have murdered one of our own."

"Careful, _vagor_," Elrond hissed. "You go too far."

"My hands are not on my sword hilt," Engwalyg said and it was truth, "so I would say that I do not, yet."

Elrond's eyes flashed with a wrath terrible to behold. He spoke in Quenya, which was a tongue that Engwalyg did not know and did not wish to, and his words were angry and rough. Then he spun 'round on his heel and stalked off through the bedraggled camp.

Warily Engwalyg watched him go until he passed out of sight behind a dusty tent. Only then did the Greenwood warrior wrap his fingers around his sword's long hilt, just for a moment, until he felt better. He closed his eyes and imagined the Noldor meeting their long-deserved fate at last. His mood lifted somewhat yet he felt as if a black shade had fallen across his heart and Engwalyg wondered if he would ever know the touch of sunlight and song again or if his days would be cast ever more in dark sorrows.

... ... ...

Imladris followed Glorfindel into the dim, leafy maze of Greenwood. He followed the destructive footsteps of orcs. In truth, the rest of the Eldar could have easily discerned the path themselves; it did not take a tracker to trail orcs through broken foliage and crushed ground. They left broad signs of their presence, especially when they traveled in haste. Glorfindel was more of a point-guard than a pathfinder.

The twice-born was skilled in that role; his ears were sharp and his eyes keen and his senses had been honed over two lifetimes, both of them spent fighting Shadow and killing orcs. The hilt of his sword was loose in his hand and his fingers ran absently across the smooth wood as if searching for imperfections. His eyes sought only orcs, and the faint trace of elflings.

All he found was forest, and the ruin of the Enemy's passage.

They paused, once, hands on swords and eyes scanning the thick trees, but it was only a boar rooting for its supper. The Imladris Elves did not relax; they would not relax until their quarry was found, the orcs dispatched, and the elfings seen safe and whole. The whole company was tense, tenser even than hunting orcs would have ordinarily have justified.

Much of that tension flowed, contrary to all expectations, from Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower. He was ever cheerful and calm and bright spirited, but here beneath the shadows of Greenwood's massive trees something was bothering him. He could not place it, which made the feeling worse; he knew not what, yet every instinct he had screamed that something was wrong. Something in this tangled maze of green and brown was wrong and the farther they traveled under Greenwood's leafy bowers the closer to it they came. This time the Gondolin Elf was not whistling yet all had all picked up on Glorfindel's anxiety nonetheless. They kept their fingers on their blades and their mounts riding close to one another. Sharp grey eyes scanned the trees around them but all was still and silent in the aftermath of the orcs' foul passage through these lands.

Lord Elrond's hands were clenched into empty fists at his sides. Sometimes it almost appeared to a stray glance as if one of them held a faint blue light within its grasp, but it was in the wrathful eyes of the _peredhel _that the true light gleamed. It was as though stars or silmarils had fallen into his dark grey orbs and shone now from bitter depths of wrath and a sorrow held stubbornly at bay by the force of his will alone.

When they came to the cave, almost that will was not enough.

There was a patch of Elf-blood on the stony ground within.

The hearts of all the Imladris Elves sank towards despair. It was not a large patch, but it was enough. Glorfindel knelt next to the dried liquid and brushed the ground with gentle fingers. "I would guess that one of the elflings lay here for a time, and was wounded." He looked up at Elrond and hastened to add, "but not badly; at the least, the wound did not bleed overmuch."

"Which elfling?" Elrond asked tonelessly.

"My lord, that is impossible to tell from—"

"Glorfindel."

The Gondolin Elf looked away, unwilling to meet Elrond's eyes. He was lying, of course; the smear of blood was a clear enough record of the size of the Elf that had lain in it for even a novice tracker to guess at size and age—and Glorfindel was in no respect a novice. "One of the twins," he said softly.

Elrond nodded, his face utterly blank.

Glorfindel rocked smoothly to his feet. "We are not far behind," he announced firmly to the listening Elves. "If we travel fast, we should soon catch them."

The Elves hastened back to their mounts, although it was getting harder to maneuver the horses; the forest was too thick to make for ease of riding far from common paths. If it were not for the swath of destruction cut by the orcs they pursued, they would already be walking their mounts. They remained horsed now not only for speed but for tactical advantage; if they could strike at the orcs as cavalry rather than on foot, the odds would lean firmly in their favor so long as they were not too overly outnumbered.

From the signs left by their quarry, they would not much have need to worry.

These signs did little to reassure.

Glorfindel held up a hand and the Imladris Elves stopped as one. Silently the golden-haired Balrog slayer slipped from his horse. He patted the animal's flank absently to reassure her and with two steps into the dense undergrowth disappeared even from Elvish eyes. The Imladris warriors all had hands on blade or bow now and their eyes flickered quickly across the leafy shadows around them. Elrond sat still and silent on his mount and in his eyes a dire wrath blazed. The _peredhel_'s face was dead as stone save for those burning gray eyes and none of the company would meet his gaze.

It seemed even to the ageless Eldar that Glorfindel was gone for hours but within a handful of moment he had reappeared, silent and tense. "My lord," he whispered to Elrond, "we are near. There are caves ahead, and dead ground around the entrance. The very air reeks of these creatures and their foul evil, and the forest is frightened. We have found them."

Elrond nodded and dismounted stiffly. "Good," he said shortly. The other warriors likewise dropped from their mounts but Elrond stopped one with a gesture. "Ondonaur, you have been to Greenwood before."

The Elf blinked in surprise but nodded. "Years ago," he said. "Before the Dark Lord's rise and fall, one of my kin wed a Sindar Elf of Greenwood, and I journeyed here for the festivities. I have not been since," he added quickly, as if hoping to avert any strategic questions by outlining how useless his few scraps of information would be after so much time.

_Children_, Glorfindel thought, half in amusement and half in exasperation. He could not have said how old Ondonaur was, but if the boy did not feel the need to indicate whether he meant Sauron or Morgoth when he spoke of a Dark Lord, he could not have seen much of the Second Age, and none of the First.

Elrond nodded absently, hardly listening. "Do you remember where the palace of the king is?"

"I…I think so, Lord. Roughly, at least." Ondonaur frowned in confusion.

"Should you chance close enough, no doubt you will come across one who can direct you better," the _peredhel _murmured. "Ride you then, and tell Thranduil that Imladris is come, and that we shall retrieve for him his son, if he should wish to join us here or send a guide to bring us after to his palace."

"My lord," another Elf asked, "would it not be more…diplomatically sound to wait to inform Lord Thranduil of his son's safe return _after _we have indeed secured the boy?"

Elrond raised an eyebrow. "Were it my son, Aefaen" he said sternly, "I would not appreciate _any_ delay in the arrival of such a message."

Aefaen bowed and said no more; all present could not help but note how it _was _Elrond's sons in peril, and that if anyone would know an _adar_'s feelings on the matter, it would be he.

"I shall ride with all haste, lord," Ondonaur said, and swung back onto his mount's back. He urged the horse off through the trees at the best pace possible through such dense brush. No one else spoke but all avoided meeting Elrond's eye, or Aefaen's.

"Glorfindel," Elrond said, "lead me to the children."

"My Lord," said the Gondolin Elf. He said nothing about it being unnecessary for Elrond to scout the area for himself; said nothing about his own skills at reconnaissance; nothing about the risks of emotional commanders in the field. He said nothing but led the _peredhel _to the orcs' lair in silence.

Glorfindel knew that Elrond the Lord of Imladris would need to see the ground on which his people would fight for himself; so would Elrond the _adar_ need to see for himself where his children were being held.

* * *

_Vagor _– swordsman (Sindarin)


	41. Without Retreat

_Apologies_ _for taking so long to get this out. I know I've probably seemed annoyingly productive lately with all the Potter-fic, and you were all probably impatiently wondering when that would spill over to LotR, and I'm sorry it took so long. I have been working, really, but things are complicated right now what with the end being so near, and I wanted to plan things out well ahead so that I didn't write any of our warriors into a strategic corner, and I tend to re-write each section at least three times before I'm done with it, so...well, it's just more delicate and detailed than the Potter stuff, so it takes longer for it to get to a publishable state. But this sort of delay really is inexcusable, and I am sorry for it. _

_Because it's been so long, here's a quick recap: everyone's in Greenwood now, and the boys have been captured by the bad guys. They left Fuiniel for dead, which she wasn't, and now she's tracking them. Elrond and his forces have found the orc lair, and know that the kids are inside. Thranduil and several of his warriors are chasing orcs through the trees, unaware of any of their visitors. Oh, and Legolas and the twins have just discovered that their captor is an elf! And now, at long last, I give you..._

* * *

**Chapter Forty-One: Without Retreat**

Glorfindel wiped thick black blood from his long sword without a grimace. The sticky substance was repulsive and its touch made his skin crawl, but he was long-used to the feeling, and the stench, and the foulness. He no longer shuddered.

The twice-born Elf of Gondolin crept quietly through the bloodstained bushes until he crouched at Elrond's side. For a moment he was reminded sharply of another battle, long ago; but they stood in trees now, and there were no armies at their heels, and it was Elrond's sons in danger, and Thranduil's, not all of Middle-earth. There was no Sauron, here; only orcs.

The memory passed.

Even though it was once again a siege they were fighting.

The Imladris Elves had charged the stinking caves but the orcs within had been far larger in number than they had expected. Rather than merely the small band of kidnappers that they had tracked, an entire den of the foul creatures seemed to be lurking within those loathsome caverns. This was no scavenged hide-out from the sun that they had come upon: it was a full lair.

And the Elves were grievously outnumbered.

Their charge had been bloodily repulsed and no doubt they would have soon been overrun by the foul horde save for their luck in timing, for the sun was strong overhead and foul creatures of shadow and darkness like orcs have no love for that glowing golden orb. They did not want to sortie out and fight against Elves under full daylight, and so they had stopped when they felt it safe to do so—when the Elves were on the run.

But they would not run far, not with the children trapped within those caves.

And so they stood in stalemate, the Elves and the orcs, glaring at each other from woodline and from cave-mouth. The Elves were too few to attack with hope of success, they knew that; to charge the orcs again now that they were on-guard and prepared would end in bloody, violent disaster. They had been lucky, before, to surprise them so and thus take such little hurt, and none of it mortal. They would not be so lucky again, and the orcs were waiting and hungry. But the Elves could not leave. Even knowing full-well the futility of waiting, they could not bring themselves to leave.

And the orcs, of course, could go nowhere; they would not charge in daylight, the caves had no other way out—or so the Elves assumed, for else the foul creatures would doubtless have taken it already, vanishing into the forest through unknown paths, rather than risk open battle with Elven-kind—and to try and creep away through the front entrance would have left them pierced with Elvish arrows. The orcs, after all, could not know how limited the Elvish supplies were, nor how few their numbers; they could not have known that the number of orcs that they could shoot down was negligible, because they had now very few arrows left. If they had known, perhaps they would have risked it, sun or no.

But in truth, they had no reason to dare such a risk. Not when nightfall would come soon enough.

The orcs could simply wait and cower in their darkened caves until the moon replaced the sun and dim shadow stole over the tree-filled land. Then they would emerge, both parties knew, and then the Elves would find their doom.

But still they could not leave.

… … ...

The thick black smoke of Mordor clogged the heavy, dim air. A haze of choking miasma rose from the dark fortress and from all the lands around it, marring the sunlight and darkening the moon. The pale light of the stars was, more often than not, blunted completely by the foul, polluted air of this desolate, barren country. The soil here was planted only with corpses, and naught but death made up the bitter harvest.

It was not a land conducive to travelers or welcoming to guests, and it was not a land to which any would come willingly, but come they had, and now they could not leave.

The tattered, bloodstained, grief-stricken forces of the Last Alliance lay camped and huddled on the scarred ground in front of the black gates and blacker towers, like so many grey-streaked ants scratching at the nigh-impregnable doors. They were a company made of Elves, and Men, and Dwarves, and all the Free Folk of Middle-earth, and they could none of them leave this place.

From this land, from this battle, there could be no retreat; there could never be retreat. There was victory, or there was death, because in his wrath Sauron would never be merciful. The only thing surrender could bring to them would be the slow, torturous demise of slavery and imprisonment under his dark pleasure and for his twisted amusement. They had to win, or they were nothing.

They were the Last Alliance, and there could never be another, because after this—one way or another—the battle would be over, forever. If they won, they would defeat the Dark Lord, cast him down so that he might never climb up again; destroy him as the Valar had not so many years ago; scatter his ashes upon the wind and sow the barren fields of Morder with his hate-filled corpse. This entire country would be his funeral pyre, his tomb; Morder might never recover from the life and death of Sauron its dread lord, but the rest of Middle-earth would know peace, and greenery, and a future of freedom and light.

Or they would lose, and Sauron would spread out across all the lands, known and unknown, and conquer or consume all who stood before him. There would be nothing but hopeless, desperate fighting as they fled, and all would fall before his implacable dark wrath, his insatiable dark hunger.

And that was why they could not leave, no matter how many they lost. That was why they stood firm in the face of uncountable deaths and unbelievable tears. They were the only hope, the last hope, for all of Middle-earth, and so they could not leave. That was why they stayed, and fought, and faced such staggering loses with no retreat.

That was why they did not despair, these desperate warriors; they were past despair, past hope. At this point, it was either die or win, for there was now no other option. The siege would break, and they would fight, and fall. It was inevitable, their final conflict, and only death would settle the issue—either Sauron's, or that of every Elf, Man, and even Dwarf here among this company of Free Peoples.

Elrond _Peredhel_ stood on a high peek and looked down upon his forces, and the smoldering black stone that hid the Enemy from their view. He pulled his cloak tight around him in the chill, lifeless air of Morder, and he envied the dead Men on the field.

Their broken bodies were carted off to be burned or buried, and then their fight was done. None knew where Men went when they died, save that it was not here, was never again here. The Halls of Mandos did not ring with the footsteps of the departed Edain, or if they did, then they were separate Halls than those to which the Elves departed. Even the Dwarves, it was said, did not leave this land when they died; they were taken, instead, by Aulë, there to lie with their kin in slumber until he woke them, one day, for some far-off final battle, or final peace, depending on which legend you adhered to.

Elrond wondered that he did not wake them now.

But Men...Men were different. They possessed the Gift of Men, or the Doom of Men; in the first years of the Alliance, most had called it the Doom, but seven long years later, nearly every Elf now thought of it as a Gift indeed. They had all of them seen too much fighting, too much death, and too much despair to think harshly of anything that lifted one from out of this bitter, hurtful world, no matter where it was that one next awoke.

Elrond, for the first time, envied his brother his choice.

But _peredhel_ though he might be, Elrond now was Elf-kind, and bound forever to the circles of this world. The straight road lay waiting far behind him, and closer now, a fast trip to Mandos's halls on the edge of an orkish blade. Either way, he was here in Middle-earth, in Arda or Aman, and he was here to stay.

And to fight, forever if need be.

Elrond had distant kin among nearly every noble house of Middle-earth, but no close family that yet lived and walked the hills and forests of his distant homeland. His parents were both departed; his brother, too; he was herald now to Gil-galad, who was as like to a father to him as any had ever been. But there was a girl, far away, with silver hair and smiling eyes, and although even thoughts of her grew pale and faded under the heavy skies of Morder and now could do little to lift a heart so mired in blood and grief, he would fight for her, and for all those who refused to kneel under Sauron's yoke.

He would fight through despair, and grief, and loss, and if necessary through death itself, as Glorfindel had. He would fight, and he would fall, and he would rise to fight again.

They all would, these desperate warriors of this battered Last Alliance, because it was that, or it was nothing.

And from the Dark Lord there could be no retreat. Not for Elrond, not for Gil-galad, not even for Celebrían. The paths across the Sea did not offer safety now, for Sauron had been of the Valar, once, it was said, and so they could not hope that he would be forever unable to cross those distant waters.

They would hold him—and destroy him—here, or they all would fall, into darkness without end forever.

The dark of Morder, everywhere, without respite. For there was no light here, in Sauron's lands, that could long resist his Shadow, and even the memory of stars grew pale and hollow beneath the Dark Lord's gaze.

… … ...

Elrond stared at the vague shadows moving in the dark hollow in front of him. He crouched in cold mud and frost-bit bushes and fingered his sword with a scowl. His right hand was tight around the cold band of metal he wore, but he knew that even Vilya would not be enough, not here and now. Were he in Rivendell, perhaps; in the lands into which he had poured the power of the Ring since it was given him by Gil-galad; in the lands of his home, where every rock and tree were known to him, where the very rivers could rise up at his command—

But he was not in Imladris, but in Greenwood. And there was little here that he could do, and it would not, he knew, be near enough, not against numbers such as those, with such limited forces at his command.

Not with his sons held hostage.

He could collapse the caves, or flood them, or fill them with a howling wind that would strip orc-flesh from its foul bones; he could do all these things and more, but he could not do them and save his sons. Vilya was powerful, yes, but it was not perfect, and neither was he.

He was a fool.

He should leave, now; retreat with his outnumbered, wounded forces; return with proper plans and preparations, not stay here when he knew that they were doomed to failure. They had no hopes of success, not here and now—and yet he stayed. And night drew ever-closer in the shadowy forests of Greenwood.

Perhaps salvation would come from Thranduil before the darkness fell. Perhaps Ondonaur's message would reach the woodland king and his people, and the fierce warriors of Greenwood would arrive with bow and sword and steely wrath in their eyes, well-prepared to slaughter the orcs that dared pollute their forest. Perhaps they would come soon enough to save Imladris—Elrond hoped.

But it was a grim hope, and an unlikely one.

Elrond sighed and stirred. He could feel the gazes of his warriors fasten on him even while they kept steady watch upon the orcs they held besieged. They knew that he was about to speak, and they readied their weapons in case he should give the order to charge.

But he could not. They would die, all of them, and much as Elrond desired to thrust himself and all his power and strength against the foul things that held captive his sons—tormented as he was by each moment that Elladan and Elrohir spent in orkish captivity—he knew that he could not give that order. He could not lead his people to their deaths.

"Glorfindel," he said quietly, and the golden-haired Balrog-slayer was suddenly at his side.

"Yes, my lord?" he asked, his cheerful tones grim and dark and neutral; whatever Elrond ordered, he would not dissent. Glorfindel had never been a father, neither in this life nor his last, but Elrond knew that if anyone could know a father's heart who was not one, it would be he; the Gondolin Elf had a paternal love for all of Middle-earth and the childish creatures who inhabited it. He had come back from Mandos to protect them all, and he had already given his life once in hopeless battle to allow others a chance to flee.

Elrond met his eyes and saw the offer: _we will fight again. For the children, we will fight again, and we will fall, and we will save them in the falling. If you ask me, I will fall. _

But Elrond could not ask.

"I want you to lead the others away," Elrond said instead. He spoke quietly, informally, as if it were just the two of them in his study; as if every warrior of Imladris that had ridden hence with him were not listening with baited breath and hackles raised.

As if it were not an order.

"There is no sense in staying here and awaiting nightfall. I place you in command in my absence; take our people and join with Thranduil's forces. Route the orcs and, should I be unable to do so myself, I trust it to you to see my children safely home."

"No," said Glorfindel.

Elrond raised an eyebrow imperiously, but the Gondolin Lord did not quail before him.

"No," Glorfindel said again, and shrugged. "My lord," he added politely.

"Glorfindel, this is an order. Take our people and leave me here. Return at dawn—or when Thranduil's people are prepared—and if I have left here anything unfinished, I trust that you will deal with it all properly."

Elrond was not sure what he would do, but he knew he sounded like he had a plan. Glorfindel knew what resided on his finger, and what it could do. Glorfindel knew his voice, and his Ring, and the power that he could with the two of them command. And Glorfindel had seen what he was capable of with a sword. Elrond knew that he could not possibly hope to prevail against this horde of orcs alone, but he was also far from helpless, and it sounded like he had a plan.

Perhaps another would have been fooled—perhaps the rest of his warriors were, even—but not Glorfindel. The Balrog-slayer had lived too long and seen too much and he knew well the look in someone's eye when they were prepared to turn and sacrifice everything on impossible hopes.

He had done it himself, after all.

"No," Glorfindel said.

"Glorfindel…" Elrond began, a scowl of command on his features, but he was stopped by a firm, murmuring agreement from the rest of his forces. It was mutinous and insubordinate and unflinching. They would none of them leave him, not a single soldier; they would none of them obey this command. Even should Glorfindel retreat as Elrond ordered, they would none of the others follow him away.

Elrond scowled at them all, but not a single Elf flinched to meet his glare.

Glorfindel smiled cheekily when Elrond turned back to argue further with the Balrog-slayer and he knew then that it was hopeless. Nothing he said would change anything.

Imladris was here with its lord, and here it would stay.

Elrond swore.

Then there was a rustling, wordless thrum of alarum that ran through the forest behind them.

_ Orcs!_

… … _..._

Fuiniel hissed at a sudden sound and flattened herself against a treetrunk. Though her fingers closed tightly around the smooth hilt of one long white knife, she did not draw it.

_Yrch_, after all, did not often ride horses.

The rider was, in fact, an Elf. He had long brown hair, grey eyes, and was dressed in the newly-familiar style of Imladris. Fuiniel frowned, and stepped out of the darkness.

He drew his horse to a sudden stop and gaped at her.

"What are you doing here?" Fuiniel demanded imperiously.

"I...I seek the palace of Lord Thranduil," the Elf stammered, gaping at her. "Are you...would you be, by any chance, the _elleth_ called Fuiniel?"

"I am," she said, "who are you?"

"I am Ondonaur. I ride with Lord Elrond. We have come seeking his sons...are they not with you?"

Fuiniel shook her head, fighting a stabbing pang of guilt. "They were taken by _yrch_," she said quietly. "I fought," she assured Ondonaur, "but they mistook me for dead when I fell senseless, and took my companions while I slept. I track them now."

"We...we do the same," Ondonaur said. He was staring at her quite strangely. "My Lord Elrond and his forces, I mean. I have been dispatched to tell Lord Thranduil of our quest, and of his son's whereabouts."

Fuiniel nodded. "You know where _Ernil _Legolas is?" she asked.

"I—roughly. Orcs are not hard to track, as you must know if you now follow them, but I was sent to bring news to Thranduil before our main company reached where the children are being held. I was sent off the moment that we scouted their foul lair. By now no doubt Lord Elrond and my comrades have engaged the enemy, and if the children are not freed already, they soon will be."

Fuiniel nodded, but did not allow herself to hope.

"If you would ride with me, I would be honored," Ondonaur continued, "and likewise would be grateful of your assistance in finding Thranduil and his palace. I recall the rough location, but that was many years ago, and..."

Fuiniel shook her head. "I go to _Ernil _Legolas," she said.

"There is no need," Ondonaur assured her. "Lord Elrond—"

"I mean no disrespect to Lord Elrond," Fuiniel said firmly, "but I have a duty to _Ernil _Legolas, and I will find him for myself. I will give you directions to the palace—it is but one day's ride away, if you ride very fast—but I will not come there with you."

"My dear girl," the Imladris Elf said gently, "you are injured, and but a child yourself. Let my lord and his warriors do what they are trained to, and fret yourself no more."

"I do not fret," Fuiniel snarled, "I act."

"_Elleth_, please, come with me. You will only endanger yourself, seeking orcs and battle."

"Then danger is what I shall seek," she replied firmly.

"I cannot let you do so alone," Ondonaur shook his head, "and I have a mission for my lord. I cannot turn aside from my task to look after you, so I fear that you must thus come with me."

"I do not require your protection," Fuiniel hissed.

"I shall carry you with me by force if I must, but I cannot allow you to venture alone into such danger," Ondonaur said, and made to dismount.

Fuiniel's blade cleared its hilt before he could move, but she kept the tip pointed down, away from her fellow Elf. He froze, still mounted, and gawked at her. The cold elven steel in her hand gleamed almost as fiercely as her narrow grey eyes. "You may do your duty or not as you choose," Fuiniel said quietly, "but I am going to _Ernil _Legolas. I promised myself that I would protect him, and I will do so no matter the cost. So far I have drawn blade on naught but _yrch_," she continued even more quietly, "but I am willing to stain my hands with other, redder blood, if you force me to."

Ondonaur stared at her in shocked silence, his eyes wide and bright with disbelief. At last he shook his head. "I will not force you to such a deed," he said slowly, "no matter how much I would rather convince you to turn from such a dangerous path as that which now you follow."

Fuiniel nodded and sheathed her blade. "Good," she said, and told the Imladris Elf briefly how best to find Greenwood's palace, and then she walked away from him alone.

Ondonaur watched the small, dark-haired child vanish into the shadows of her forest, and he shook his head, fighting a strong pang of trepidation. He feared for her, but he had his duty, too, and he could no more turn aside from that than the _elleth_ would, and so he rode on...

But he looked back over his shoulder many times, watching in vain for the dark, determined child.

… … ...

Greenwood's warriors moved silently through the trees, trailing the thrashing sounds of climbing _yrch_. They followed at a great distance because the _yrch_ were easy to track by their clumsy noises and their trail of destruction, and because Thranduil's forces were wary of _yrch_ treachery, and would not be lured into an ambush by overconfidence.

Not this day.

But the _yrch_ did not seem to know that they were followed; they made no move to throw off their pursuers, at least, so if they knew they did not care. And that would have been worrying to all who followed them, were it not more likely that the rough, clumsy creatures simply did not know that the silent footsteps of Elves trailed them through the unfamiliar trees. They were preoccupied enough with finding their path through the tall and tangled limbs, and more than one _orch_ could be heard grumbling to itself and its fellows about the outlandish orders that had them up here walking bird-paths and elf-trails through the branches, rather than bullying their way along the forest floor like they were meant to do.

Still, the Elves were cautious, and moved slowly with many scouts sent out ahead to warn of traps and treachery.

One of those scouts returned now, tearing his way hastily through the _yrch_-scarred treetops. He dropped to his knees on a slim branch in front of Thranduil, who paused with his guard to listen to the young soldier's words. Eregmegil knelt down next to the young elf, steadying the lad with a strong hand upon his shoulder.

The scout's eyes were wide and horrified as he looked upon his king, and when he spoke his words were breathless from repugnance as much as from exertion. "My lord," he panted, "the _yrch_ have an encampment ahead, right within our borders!"

A murmur of quiet outrage and disgust ran through the listening warriors. Even the most stealthy and well-trained, battle-hardened fighters could barely restrain themselves from voicing their horrified reactions to the young scout's words. _Yrch_, lairing in their Greenwood? Such a thing was unthinkable, insupportable. They stood all of them aghast.

It was bad enough to find that the _yrch_ thought that they could travel freely through their lands and their trees, but to so blithely set up a home of their own in Greenwood? Such travesty could not be borne.

Merilgais said as much, bitterly, practically spitting each word as it fell heavily from her mouth. "How _dare_ they flaunt our warriors thus?" she snarled. Her pretty face was twisted with revulsion, and hate gleamed unsheathed in her steely eyes.

But Tiraran, standing near to her in the trees, said softly, "Greenwood has not enough warriors these days to keep Evil from her trees." His grey eyes were shadowed and dull, and the sorrow of many long years sat deeply on his unlined face. "Too many died and never returned and we have not enough now to patrol all our lands, let alone truly defend them. Too many were lost to the tragedy of the Last Alliance, and to the Shadows afterward; too many," he said quietly, "have now departed."

He meant, of course, the queen, although he would not say so; they did not speak of the queen.

Merilgais grimaced. "Ay," she said heavily, "so they have." Merilgais fingered her glaive, and thought of long-ago wounds that could never really heal. She looked at her king, standing tall and proud and frail, the long gold of his hair pale and brittle in his pain. She would have gone to him had she any comfort to offer, but there was none of that to be found under the shadowy boughs of Greenwood the Great.

The scout wiped his mouth and handed the restorative canteen back to Eregmegil. Then he looked up, his shock-filled gaze meeting his king's once more. "And," he continued darkly, "Imladris is here fighting them."


End file.
